


Necessary Things

by Ygrain



Series: Ned Cousland [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A more detailed account of the events around the Landsmeet. Severals PoVs, from both sides of the fence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The gates of Denerim stand open: though the time is unsafe, the war has not touched the capital yet.

There have always been watchful eyes, following the progress of those who enter; at a time like this, even more so. The arrival of Arl Eamon Guerrin and those accompanying him does not go unnoticed.

The endgame is about to begin.

* * *

"My Lord… but, my Lord!" the exasperated servant calls in vain but dares no more: if the Lord Regent wishes to announce himself on his own, so be it, especially if the Regent's face forebodes ill.

_Ill to the traitors_ , Cauthrien thinks as their fast steps bang loud in the corridor. She smirks inwardly but maintains unmoved face for the show; and there's bound to be one.

She is mildly disappointed, though: the chamber door is guarded – truly, the traitors do not feel safe in their own house! – and as they approach, one of them is apt enough to alert those inside. Arl Eamon thus gains time to compose himself and greet Loghain civilly.

Cauthrien does not listen to the exchange; these are meaningless words, only a prelude to the battle, and she is a woman of swords, not words. Instead, she concentrates on the two young men standing by Eamon. The blond and more athletic of the two resembles Maric so much that there can be no doubt of his descent; too bad if he is truly the king's bastard and not an impostor as she had expected. The other, dark-haired and slenderer, seems vaguely familiar.

_The Warden. He must be the Warden_.

She thought he would be older. Both are, in fact, no more than in their early twenties. Both are armed, and both shift their weight in the battle stance as soon as they set eyes on the newcomers.

In response, Cauthrien shifts hers; while Maric's bastard does not move his eyes past Loghain, the Warden notices her move immediately. A warrior born, and as such assesses Cauthrien with his glance. She is unused to such scrutiny – Loghain's second, and the best sword of Ferelden, famed wide and far – she feels offended by the lack of respect. _Come on, boy, wanna test_? She feels the battle excitement building up inside but then his eyes move past her to the right and his face stiffens. She quickly glances that way: Arl Howe's lips curl in a small grin. She keeps a deep and profound dislike of the man but hides it well: it is not her place to criticise Loghain's choice of allies.

The debate becomes excited: the civil words gain an edge. The derision in Loghain's voice is nothing new to her; but while people normally cow when they become its target, Arl Eamon is unmoved, and the Warden stands defiant, proclaiming:

"We met in Ostagar, in case you do not remember. I am Ned Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever. And I demand the right of blood: this man here murdered my family." His narrowed eyes burn into Arl Howe.

The Arl remains complacent to the passion. "You have no rights. Any rights the Couslands had were forfeit when I revealed their treason. The teyrnir of Highever now rightfully belongs to the Howes."

For an instant, Cauthrien thinks that the young man will attack; Maric's bastard evidently shares her assumption and quickly puts a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder. Both are wrong, though: he only pales and his voice is sharp like a blade.

"You think I will tolerate you slandering my family's name? Bring your 'proofs' to the Landsmeet if you dare – I hear that murderers are still hanged here!"

Cauthrien feels her jaw drop but this is not yet an end to the insolence as young Cousland – Ned, was it? – addresses Loghain directly. "Regent, this man basely murdered his host's family under the cover of night and the king never condoned his action. I demand that you uphold the law as you are obliged to!"

"Enough!" Loghain snaps. "The traitors' rights are forfeit, as Arl Howe has said, and there is no more to it. You may be grateful that the charge of treason does not extend to your person."

His command is not heeded, though. "I take it then that it was  _you_  who condoned Howe's deed – before or after you left Cailan die, I wonder?"

Cauthrien cannot see Loghain's face but can well imagine how it flushes with wrath. "Mind your betters, young man!" she blurts, astonished at the insinuation, but no-one pays attention, taken aback by that unbelievable impudence. Ned Cousland's dark eyes then flash back at Arl Howe who stands there, not even trying to conceal a sneer. "Enjoy your moment of glory while it lasts!"

Despite her personal feelings towards the man, this has gone too far. "You must be either very bold or very stupid to threaten the teyrn before witnesses!"

This time she is noticed: "Since when is justice considered a threat unless by those who have to fear it?" Ned Cousland demands in a soft voice at the same time as Arl Eamon and Loghain both command: "Enough."

The young Cousland breathes rapidly but speaks no more; if glances could kill, Cauthrien has no doubt that Arl Howe would already be sprawling on the floor.  _Just you try anything_ , she thinks,  _and I'll shove those words back in your throat_.

With their obligation here fulfilled, Loghain turns and leaves without a goodbye: the last chance was granted, and refused. Arl Howe follows with a look of hatred, and Cauthrien closes the line, feeling the skin between her blades itch as in an anticipation of strike.

The time of words is over; next time it will be the time for swords to speak.  _Her_  turn.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"I'd much rather see Anora on the throne that a bastard of Maric's, that would be unprecedented!" The nobleman's excited exclamation rises above the hum of surrounding voices.

_Not particularly reassuring, is it._ _Though it could have been expected._

Alistair returns Ned's look with a wry smile. "And here I thought I would be getting a hearty welcome with a feast." He takes a sip of the warm spiced wine. "Could you remind me once more why I ever agreed to this?"

 _And this is just the beginning._  "Oh, that will come; just you never let them learn about your socks."

Both keep their voices low so as not to draw attention: the Gnawed Noble Tavern is overcrowded tonight, despite the sleeting rain. The noblemen who have arrived for the Landsmeet, the bright young people of Denerim, opportunity seekers, nosey types – all have gathered to gain advantages, coin alliances, or merely gather and spread gossip.

Alistair gives him a hurt look. "Isn't it most aristocratic, not to take care of one's underclothes?"

"You should have spent some time with my mother, you'd quickly find out the contrary," Ned mutters. The joke comes naturally, though accompanied by the usual pang of pain, undulled by time.

 _Though I suppose that even_ she _would find you hopeless in this respect._

Ned drinks from his cup: the warmth descending to his stomach drives away the chill he always feels with the memory of his parents.  _Almost a year since…_

As if provoked by his thought, the quarrelling noblemen again raise their voices, in the heat of argument and wine not minding whoever might be listening.

"But you cannot deny that the King's advisors did die in a suspiciously short period of time! Bryce Cousland, Urien of Denerim, even Eamon –"

"Eamon's not dead," the older man snorts.

"But fell seriously ill at that time! A coincidence?"

Ned tightens his grip on the cup. "No, I don't think that was a coincidence, either," he grits through his teeth.

"Well, if the guy mysteriously disappears over the night, that will definitely  _not_  be a coincidence," Alistair remarks under his breath with a grin. "Who is he, by the way?"

Ned furtively surveys the improminent features lined with a fair beard, then rakes his memory for faces not seen in a time. "Bann Sighard of the Dragon's Peak, I should think," he assesses at last. "My father considered him a good and honourable man."

Alistair slightly raises his brows. "Then I hope that he really does not disappear overnight, he looks like a potential support for our cause. Actually, a dozen of such Sighards would come handy. And who might be that spiteful bald mongrel?"

"Bann Ceorlic," Ned replies without further looking. "He has to keep a low profile, because of his family history." Seeing Alistair's enquiring look, he explains: "His father betrayed and murdered Queen Moira – so I suppose his son would never dare to come within ten miles of anything vaguely resembling lack of loyalty."

"Well, he does seem… convinced," Alistair observes as they keep overhearing further pieces of the conversation:

"You're being very foolish. Why would Loghain leave half our own army to die when a Blight threatens? I take him at his word: The battle could not be won."

"Oh, my. Who would have thought that this was  _exactly_  what he did. I hope the guy's not going to bet money on his conviction – or maybe I do, we  _do_  need re-funding."

Alistair's sarcastic remark comes as Ned is taking another drink. When he catches his breath again, he glares at his fellow Warden: "Next time you try to kill me, could you possibly choose a more decent method? If I am to die, I hope it will have nothing to do with clove and cinnamon."

"Don't worry about that. Archdemons are not notorious for spicy tastes."

"Oh, thanks for cheering me up  _so much_."

"You're always welcome."

Their banter is interrupted as Bann Sighard, flushed in the face, storms out of the room. Ned mouths down his cup. "Time to go," he decides. "Can't wait to tell Eamon what bright news we bring."

The streets are empty as they return to the estate. As they reach the first floor, Alistair hesitates. "It's getting late. Shouldn't we leave that for the morning?"

From where they stand, Ned can see the light under the library door, meaning Eamon is still up.  _I see, Leliana's waiting_. "As you wish. There is certainly nothing that could not wait for the morning." He hides a smile, seeing Alistair rush off.

As Ned turns to his own room, he can also see the light under Morrigan's door: she's probably preparing one of her herbal concoctions, her eyes narrowed in concentration, her hands moving with elegant precision, her neck arching in the curve he would trace with his fingers –

Realizing that he has stopped involuntarily, Ned takes a deep breath and quickly passes by the door, to his own cold bed.  _I'm really not in the mood to be turned down tonight_.

_Enough time for bad news tomorrow._ _Either of them._

Though when the next day comes, the tavern gossip turns out insubstantial, compared to the story brought by the servants from the market when everyone is gathered for breakfast:

Bann Sighard's son disappeared during the night.


	3. Chapter 3

The wet cobblestones, smoothened by thousands treading feet, make the walk through the streets of Denerim challenging; nonetheless, Ned keeps wandering purposelessly along the empty streets, ignoring the few late passers-by. All he knows that he has to move, to  _act_ ; the stale atmosphere of helpless waiting at Eamon's residence has become too much to bear.

" _It… doesn't go well." Eamon's brow is deeply furrowed; yet another day spent in fruitless negotiations has taken its toll. "So many seem indecisive… and the disappearance of Bann Sighard's son certainly did nothing to improve the atmosphere. No one can claim it for sure as Loghain's doing, and no-one can be sure it isn't."_

_Have I come through the nearly impossible only to be beaten by politics?_

He strides through a dark alley: in a corner, there is a glimpse of a blade being drawn. Without slowing down, Ned puts his hand on the sword hilt: the warning is heeded, the lurking shadow retreats to find an easier prey. Ned is not relieved, though: in his current state of mind, a fight would be welcome.

_Caught like a fly in a spiderweb. Cannot strike, cannot fight, only wait for the spider's move._

_To think that once I thought the constant fighting a nuisance…_

The walk does not provide the relief he hoped for when he recklessly stormed out of Eamon's estate, into the night, on his own.

_I should have told Alistair. We could have_ _had a drink in some tavern._

But it's neither drink nor Alistair's company that he desires.

_Yet another struggle where I can only wait while I am losing._

Passing the lit or dark windows, he briefly ponders the ordinary lives behind them: families gathered for dinner, or preparing for bed. A life almost past his imagination now.

_And past my options, as well._

But it's not the  _family_  that he misses now; it's the closeness of contact… the  _intimacy_.

" _Leave me be!"_

" _Maker, how long do you intend to go on like this?"_

 _And how long can_ I _go on like this?_

A house, fully lit; the sound of laughter and music: the merriment everyone can have, for a coin.

The Pearl.

Did his feet know better to bring him here?

With sudden revulsion, Ned walks faster to get past the brothel; then he abruptly turns and enters.

_Why not, after all?_

"What will my lord desire?"

 _What I desire you cannot give_. "A company."

An inviting smile, and a gesture. "As it may please my lord. We have the best selection."

They do. A tall, elegant courtesan, with gracious movements, her hair of raven black and green cat-like eyes…

Ned turns away and picks a tiny, curly blonde whose eyes glint with sparks of mischief and lips constantly curve in a smile.

Later, after he almost comes to believe that there was also some pleasure for her and not just obligation in their conduct, he realizes what he had known all along: this is no help.

But it is not the courtesan's fault, and so he holds his temper and slips a golden coin in her hand as she attends him in putting on his drakeskin armour. It earns him a more or less genuine kiss and assurance that his presence will always be most welcome.

As she accompanies him along the quiet corridor, Ned suddenly remembers something. "Who is in there?" he motions at the door at the very end.

The smile vanishes. "I… do not know."

She doesn't look in his eye and he shrugs. "Never mind. You may leave now."

For a moment, Ned stands unmoving, then quietly approaches the door.  _What was that ridiculous password?_

As could have been supposed, there are more of them, all four armed and looking forward to a combat.

 _So am I. Do you_ really _think that you could kill yourself a Warden?_

_Howe's men._

_Here you go, for all the naïve fools whom you have lured in here_ , Ned thinks as he plunges his sword in the chest of the first of them even before their leader finishes the sentence.

The remaining three will be more difficult to take down. As he ferociously deflects the blows, Ned realizes that he has become dangerously accustomed to Alistair's solid presence in fight. As he bashes off the elven hireling, he subconsciously expects Alistair to step in.

Instead, a blade drives deep in his shoulder and slides out with a gush of blood. Ned staggers; his counter-attack is blocked again.

None of them notices the intruder until the leader comes down with an arrow in his throat; the rest are a matter of no time at all.

Heavily breathing, Ned turns to face Leliana – a  _very_  angry Leliana whose eyes sparkle blue lightnings. "Are you nuts?" she yells.

"What are you doing here?"

"What am  _I_  doing here? What are  _you_  doing here, and what  _would_  you be doing if I didn't find it strange that the little whore returned without you and looked more guilty than Maferath himself?" She snorts. "Now, sit down, you're bleeding like a fountain."

She's not particularly gentle when treating the wound and the room suddenly swirls. "Don't you dare to swoon," she grits through her teeth, "I'm not going to carry you."  _As if you could._  "Idiot. After all we have been through, you would die in a tavern brawl?"

"It was no brawl. The were waiting here for Warden supporters."

"So it was a trap – and you walked in? Maker help me or I finish you myself! Alistair will tear off your head when he learns!"

"Did he send you to spy on me?"

For a moment it seems that he is for a slap, then Leliana says very calmly: "No, he did not. I was in the library when… you had the argument with Morrigan. Then I heard you going out, alone, so I decided to keep an eye on you. There was no time to alert anyone else, I was afraid that I could lose track of you meanwhile."

Ned is beginning to feel dizzy. "So I suppose thanks should be on the way."

"No need to." She gently presses his hand. "I am sorry."

He turns his head away, from her compassion. "Everyone's been telling me what I'm up to, and look, here it's come, the fool me."

Leliana hesitates. "It… didn't quite sound like what I would have expected. I think she actually – "

"Please. No more of this, not now. Let's just get out of here."

Ned is genuinely surprised that Leliana complies with his wish, and grateful; even more so that the way back to Eamon's takes much longer than he would have preferred and when they finally arrive, he barely finds the strength to walk past the guards on his own.

Without a word, Leliana takes him to his room and fetches Wynne, who also heals him without a single word, even though a return in the middle of the night, soaking wet with rain and blood, would certainly deserve a speech on recklessness and leader's obligations. Ned is too exhausted to ponder what Leliana may have told her, and falls asleep even before the healing is finished, which, as he suspects later, was probably Wynne's doing.

When he wakes, the sun shines through the curtains at an angle telling a late morning but he does not care: the tension of the previous days is gone.

Perhaps the better weather also marks the things turning for good.

His worst problem now is facing Wynne in daylight.


	4. Chapter 4

Bright sun shines through the high-set windows of Eamon's library, dazing the eyes. Alistair blinks several times. "Pinch me, someone," he asks. "I can't have waken yet. We are going to… rescue Loghain's daughter? Fom the supposed danger in the hands of her father's best pal? At the word of an elven maid?"

Ned gives him an amused look. "A maid with the most innocent brown eyes and quite a talent for acting. 'He loved Cailan like his son, does he like Anora more? Who can tell, _non_?'" His imitation exaggerates both the zeal and the accent.

Oh yes, I forget: an  _Orlesian_  elven maid," Alistair mutters. "Why, of all the people, should  _Loghain's_  daughter keep an Orlesian maid –" he pauses as it dawns on him why  _they_ keep the company of an Orlesian – right, a Fereldan by birth but an Orlesian by the upbringing. "You think she's a bard?"

Ned twists a corner of his mouth. "I can't think of any other plausible explanation." He taps the elbow rest of his armchair with his fingers, then he laughs quietly and leans back, stretching his legs. "Anyway. This most probable Orlesian bard comes with a most improbable story, gives a heart-wrenching account of how Loghain loved Cailan, and does not forget to mention that Anora's support at the Landsmeet would be a valuable asset for us." He shakes his head. "Tell me, do I look like an idiot?"

The question is apparently rhetorical, yet Alistair never misses his chance. "Well – let me think for a moment."

" _Think_ ," Ned repeats with doubtful intonation. Alistair smirks inwardly, seeing Eamon's expression –  _I'd think you've had enough time to get used to this_. The situation acutely reminds him of Duncan's reaction – the memory is bittersweet, since it was the last time he saw Duncan alive.

" _Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance Remigold, I'm drawing a line, dar_ _kspawn or not."_

_An unexpected sound – Ned laughs, genuinely and wholeheartedly; the very first time Alistair hears him laugh since they met. "I'll get you some fancy stockings to go with the dress." He winks exaggeratedly. "You can trust my taste."_

_Duncan sighs at the exchange, his thought as clear as if articulated aloud:_ Oh, Maker.  _Two_  of them.

 _I do trust you_ , Alistair thinks,  _always will_. "So, what do we do? Assist the lady in distress and hope we won't be in the need of assistance ourselves?"

"It would seem so. Even if I was willing to dismiss the whole Anora-in-danger thing as mere fabrication, I still cannot afford to miss our possibly only chance to sway the nobles to our side. We all know what our support currently looks like."

Eamon, up till now keeping silent, clears his throat. "Now matter how improbable the option seems to you, if they do kill Anora and blame it on us, the consequences will be disastrous."

Alistair raises his brows. "This reminds me of a guy back in the Chantry. He used to wear a helmet everywhere he went, in case a stone fell on him out of the blue sky. 'The chances are slim but I cannot take the risk', he used to say."

Ned snorts. "Exactly. Nonetheless, this is so evidently a trap that I simply cannot believe that they would actually  _expect_  me to believe it. It looks like a trap, it smells like a trap – what am I supposed to do when it eventually turns out to be a trap, yell 'gotcha'? I mean, what irritates me most is not the fact that it's a trap – after all, I guess I'd be disappointed if Loghain did not try anything – but that I have to walk in something that looks like a badly staged farce.

"I doubt very much that –" the gnawing thought finally makes itself manifest. "What do you mean, 'I'?"  _Since when is it 'I', not 'we'?_

"Well – "Ned raises his brows in a perfect embodiment of innocence. "Since we know for sure that this is a trap, there's no reason why we should walk in it both, is there?"

"No reason? Like, you mean that you cannot expose  _me_  to risk? If I remember correctly, the undead, the demons, the werewolves, even the darkspawn were alright, but one Loghain is too much?"

Ned rises from his armchair, the spark of mischief in his eyes gone. "Alistair. Whatever we've been through, the danger was… undiscriminating. Impersonal. Whereas now –  _you_ are the key to our success.  _You_  are now more important than anyone else. I know it,  _you_  know it – and so does Loghain. All he has to do now to secure his position is to kill _you_. This is the endgame, do or die."

Alistair has to breathe very slowly. "Correct me if I am wrong – but since  _you_  have been the head figure in all we've done, the trap may well be set to ensnare  _you_."

"So it may. Let's face the truth, Alistair – I've already done what I could.  _You_  are unexpendable now – I am not."

"What?" Alistair springs from his armchair. He knew – Maker, he  _knew_  that it would come to this, sooner or later, and now the face that Ned has made tells him that Matters Are Serious and that it has come to doing What Is Right.  _Maker,_   _I hate this!_ "I'm simply  _not_  going to let you go through with this alone!"

"Nobody's asking for your permission."

 _Damn_   _it, don't you try that cold poker face with me!_ "Maker's breath, Ned, you claim that you are going to make me  _king_. Shouldn't you bloody well show some respect to what I want?"

Ned stares back at him for a moment, then says very softly: "When that day comes, I'll gladly kneel and swear fealty to you, you know that. But until then,  _I_  am the commander here."

_You are. You made that crystal clear_ _back then when you sacrificed Isolde. Not that I ever forgot but most of the time I have no problem with that._

_Most of the time_ _._

"Ned is right," Eamon interferes in the pause. "You will have to come to terms with the changes your new status will require– the sooner the better."

 _Great, that was exactly what I needed to hear, thank you oh so much – but it was all your idea, wasn't it._  Alistair takes a deep breath. "I am very well aware that things have changed. It's just… It doesn't feel right." He looks Ned straight in the eyes. "Nothing I say really matters, does it?" Not waiting for the response, he sighs and continues: "Do me at least a favour – do take a decent armour for a change. I don't like the idea that a piece of lizard skin is all that stands between you and a little backstabbing job."

Ned blinks. "You mean I should go for a supposedly secret mission in my shiny clinky Warden Commander breastplate? Wouldn't it sort of spoil the effect? – Don't be silly, you know that the drakeskin is actually better against blades than most stuff you find at the market." Then he grins slightly, easing the atmosphere. "I'll leave Wolf with you, he's definitely no help for a quiet break-in."

"Great. I'm to be left in charge of one fleabag of a mabari. Anything else to take care of in your absence?

"No – but I think both of you could use some supervision, so I'm leaving Wynne behind, as well."

_I see – the king-to-be is unfit to remain home alone. Great._

And the next sentence makes it even worse.

"Besides, you will need some support if I don't make it back."

Alistair loudly exhales in exasperation.  _Add a new item to the mental list of things-to-hate-about-the-royal-business:_   _friends taking the risk instead of me._

And he can only pray to the Maker that the risk does not turn out to be a sacrifice.


	5. Chapter 5

Ned shudders with disgust as he puts the surcoat with the Howe emblem over his armour.  _Not for long_ , he promises himself as he waits for Erlina to distract the guards. Even so, his skin itches from the mere idea of having that  _thing_  near.

And then they are in. So far the easy part.

_All too easy for my liking._

They walk casually through the corridors, without as much as earning a second glance from those they encounter. They pass the crossing of two corridors, which would have been perfect for an ambush, unattacked, and turn to the main wing.

To Ned's immense surprise, Queen Anora is truly there, locked; and he is hardly surprised that the door is magically sealed, meaning no quick get-in-and-out rescue but seeking the particular mage, and most probably Howe himself.

 _Howe_.

All the experience of the past months, all the discipline of Alistair's mental training, barely suffices to keep Ned's emotions at bay. How easy it would be to succumb to the rage, to slaughter his way through the estate, till he finds him.

 _Howe_.

Ned feels his heart race.  _A trap? We shall see who is the hunter and the prey here_.

 _Howe_.

Still no guards as they head to the private quarters, until they almost run into one. Fortunately, they manage to back out while the man's attention is directed elsewhere as he is busy fondling a serve maid in an alcove.

Leliana suppresses a giggle, and Ned pretends not to see the look she gives him, which amuses her even more. She flushes in the face, pressing her hand against her mouth to remain quiet.

" _Alistair, have you – " Ned bursts into the room and freezes in midstep. Alistair_ _turns red more than usually and Ned feels that his own face imitates the process. Neither is able to say a word, and so it is Leliana who saves the situation as she raises on her elbow, without any attempt to cover herself: „Come in or get out, but don't stand in the doorway. Was there anything you needed?" Then with a glint in her eye, she adds: „Or maybe you would like to join us?"_

_In retrospect, Ned is sure that at this point, Alistar started to suffocate, but since he fared no better_ _then himself, the assumption remains unconfirmed. "I – I'll come later," he manages to stutter._

„ _Sure, do – but I suggest that you knock next time."_

_Leliana's laughter rings in his ears long after he has closed the door._

The problem of discreet passing is solved as the soldier and the maid retreat to an empty bedroom. Leliana inspects the corridor for other disruption, then nods. "The lord's chambers should be at the end." For a moment, her face shows an emotion Ned cannot exactly place, then she purses her lips in a tight line.

A moment of preparation as they stand before the door, then they dart in.

 _Of course, this would have been too easy._  The rooms are empty.

Ned turns, expecting an attack from behind, but still nothing happens. After a while, Leliana says softly: "There used to be a secret entrance to the dungeon here." At their quizzical looks, she shrugs. "I have been here. A long time ago." Then, as if remembering something, she chuckles. "Actually, I think we might take the chance and look around a little. I'd like to check something."

Saying that, she she cautiously peeps back into the corridor and runs to the heavy door just opposite. Meddling with the locks seems even quicker than usually. Leliana shakes her head. "Would you believe that people don't change the locks after they have been broken into? Even more so, they don't change the locks after they have moved in a new house? Tut-tut. Oh blissful ignorance." She steps aside and motions to the door with a wide gesture. "Help yourself, Arl Howe is most generous to support the Wardens' cause."

Ned stares for a moment, then laughs quietly. "I'd better leave to your appraisal what to pick. I think I also need to check on something."  _Not that I expect Howe to be so stupid as to leave the proofs of his crimes around but one never knows_.

The assumption is correct, yet the search is not fruitless. Puzzled, Ned inspects the pack of documents retrieved from a massive chest.  _Grey Wardens' seal?_   _In_  Howe's  _property? What's going on here?_

The answers, if there are any to be found, must be in the dungeon.

 _And_  Howe.

Answers are to come first, it would seem, or at least some of them.

 _Riordan_.  _A Grey Warden_.

 _A_ Senior _Grey Warden, here, all that time while I was on my own, without help or guidance, just me and Alistair, walking at the edge… How different it could have been had we had you along!_

Seeing the marks on Riordan's body, Ned shivers.  _Months here, like this?_   _'Trying to keep your mouth shut' - I don't even want to imagine how_ I _would fare in your place._

 _Howe_.

_Just one more item on the list of things you're going to pay for._

The payment awaits in a large room, under the arch supported by massive columns, and not alone.

_Good. The elf was right saying that you would keep the mage near. One more does not make a difference._

Rendon Howe folds his hands and sneers, baring the uneven teeth. "Look what we have here. Bryce's little boy, all grown up and still trying to fit into his daddy's armour. I didn't think you would be so stupid as to come down here."

With his peripheral vision, Ned sees guards closing in, stepping out of their hiding places in the corners, behind the columns. Undoubtedly, Howe's elite. His heartbeat quickens. "You know what?" he says slowly. "I  _hoped_  you would be so stupid as to wait down here for me."

With that, the fight starts.

The trap has snapped.


	6. Chapter 6

The clashing blades fill the cold dungeon with their song.

_Concentrate. It is the mind that controls the body; make it forget the pain and perform the movement with instinct gained by practice._

So Ned does, and with a swift swirl he brings the swordsman down.

* * *

" _Come on," Alistair rolls his eyes, "it's just a small dose, a spoonful."_

_Ned suspiciously eyes the vial: the blue radiating content is definitely uappetizing. "Why is it that every time I am around you, I end up drinking something suspicious?_ _" he sighs. " Didn't you say that the initiates do not take lyrium?"_

" _They don't, at least not regularly – but you do need the initial dose, without it you could concentrate for hours and nothing would ever happen. Now, don't be a chicken, you've had worse."_

" _Like, dwarven beer?"_

" _Yeah, forgot about that one."_

 

* * *

_Focus. Draw your energy, then unleash it with a single strike._

 

Drain of the mana, the mage gasps and raises his hands in a desperate attempt to defend himself.

With one smooth move, the Keening's blade slices through the hands and the chest alike; the runes alongside glow, blood slides off the glistening surface.

The Keening. The best blade Ned has ever had, yet not the one he loves best.

 

* * *

_He_

_gently runs his fingers along the black hilt, dwelling for a moment on the golden pommel with the family emblem, and resolutely draws the leather covering back. He hands the pack to Alistair, who accepts it with a slight bow. "Keep it for me before I return. In case I don't, and if you ever have a chance to give me a decent burial, send it with me to the Maker. – No, I'm not going to change my mind," Ned stops the protest._

 

 

" _You're going to get yourself in trouble without me," Alistair pouts._

" _Less likely than with you," Ned grins and quickly avoids a punch._

* * *

If he lives till that day, the Cousland family sword will accompany him on the last journey to Orzammar. Meanwhile, it is the Keening he relies on: the blade that increases the chances that the Cousland line will live a little longer.

Yet, it is the old Cousland family sword that should have been here today, to bite at the flesh of the one who made Ned the last of the Couslands.

Ned slightly adjusts his grip of the Keening's hilt. When he raised it the first time, it seemed incredibly light; now, after the hard fight, its weight can already be felt. He looks around, counting the odds. Morrigan leans against the wall, paler than usually; Leliana lies senseless at her feet. Sten slowly limps towards him, leaving stains of blood on the floor. Ned's own tunic soaks wet warmth in more than one place, yet the wounds seem minor so far. "Stay back," he commands.

Arl Howe, as yet unharmed, sneers: he has also counted the odds. "So it's me and you, then? How very fitting that you should die by my hand like your father."

"Why?" Ned asks, knowing it's a mistake but he cannot help not to. "Why did you do it? Why do you hate us so?"

"It is hardly 'us' any more," Howe observes with mockery. Then his grimace twists. "Couslands, Couslands, Couslands – and what about the Howes? You had all that should have been mine. So I made that history, and will do the same with you!" He strikes like a viper, even before he finishes; Ned barely deflects the blow with his shield.

_Just one more time, concentrate._

* * *

" _I do not care about the cost. I simply want it repaired." Ned is beginning to lose patience._

_The dwarven smith glares back at him. "It's not worth the effort. If it means so bloody much to you, you should have taken better care of it."_

_The object of the dispute, the shield of Highever, bent and battered past recognition, lies on the working table. Ned grits his teeth_. I probably should have told the golems to be gentle _. Aloud, he only says: "I see that the rumours of the dwarven smiths' skills seem to be exaggerated. If you're unable to repair it, just say so."_

_The smith's face turns an ugly red. "Come and collect it in three days."_

* * *

And so it is the shield of Highever that pushes aside the left-hand dagger while Ned's blade drives through Rendon Howe's abdomen. The man freezes, his eyes goggling in shock, then he falls to his knees with a wail as Ned turns the blade in the wound and pulls it out, jerking it upwards to enlarge the gap.

"How very fitting that you should die like my father," he remarks, watching his enemy writhe in a quickly spreading pool of blood.

"Maker… spit on you… I deserved more!" With a howl of hatred, Howe exhales his last breath, his unseeing eyes transfixed at Ned, who would much like to do the spitting part but his mouth is dry.

_You did. How fortunate for you that you died quickly._

The room suddenly swirls around; only when Sten and Morrigan rush to his side to support him, Ned realizes how badly bleeding he is. His knees give way; as he is being laid down, his eyes never leave Howe's body.

_It does not feel the way I though_ _t._

_I feel… nothing._

This quickly turns out to be a self-deception when his wounds are being staunched; Ned gasps and archs his back until Sten holds him down.

–  _writhing on the floor in a pool of blood –_

_On the same floor –_

"Don't… let my blood mingle with his!"

"Don't worry,  _kadan_."

The wave of healing magic washes over him with the familiar tickle; again and again. Ned finally relaxes, closing his eyes.

 _Arl Howe's eyes still stare back at him_. Then the image slowly tranforms into that of his father, clutching at his abdomen, mother leaning over him.

The picture is as painful as ever.

_Oh, Maker._

With Sten's help, he slowly sits up. Morrigan's healing is not as effective as Wynne's but it will have to do. Ned wipes his face and frowns at the bloody smudge. The idea of putting back on his armour is unappealing but inevitable. He takes a deep breath.

_Let's get out of here._

Nonetheless, that desire has to be postponed for some time; Riordan may not have been the only prisoner worth saving here.

And so Ned does the other thing he wishes to very much: he pulls Morrigan closer and kisses her, long and hard. When she finally withdraws, her eyes are hazy, and so Ned leans closer and plants on her lips one more brief, gentle kiss.

She does not protest.

_So. Let's go and clean this place a little._


	7. Chapter 7

"Aaah!"

"Slowly!"

Fortunately, the young man – still a boy, in fact, no more than eighteen – swoons as they are taking him off the rack. His identity is beyond any doubts – the blond hair and fine features leave no place for speculation.

_Oswyn. Bann Sighard' lost son._

_Most probably crippled for life – to punish his father's lack of loyalty, or to satisfy Howe's perversion?_

_Howe. If I could kill you multiple times, I gladly would._

_The question remains, to what extent did you act on your own,_ _you bastard?_

_'The sword and the hand' that wields it_ , he remembers the assassin's words once again.  _Though it hardly matters: the day you appointed him to this title, Loghain, you became responsible for his actions. And I'm going to hold you to that._

–  _First things first, though:_ _the way out._

Ned rakes his hair in frustration. Going to Eamon's estate is not an option, it's too far and they would be too vulnerable on the way.

Young Oswyn whimpers as he is coming to again.

"Can you do something for him?" Ned turns to Morrigan.

With a little hesitation, she nods and kneels down. Expertly, she places her hands at Oswyn's throat and presses both his carotids for a moment, safely rendering him unconscious. "Why waste magic if this works, as well," she remarks as she gets up. "As for the rest, you'd better leave that to Wynne, I'm not going to mess something." The tone is cold but she leaves ou her usual line about helping stray kittens and by the way her eyes flicker around like those of a caged wild animal, Ned can say that she is as uncomfortable in the circumstances as everyone else.

Sten does maintain his usual calm face but the composure is too perfect to be genuine. Leliana does not even pretend to be unmoved: the effort it costs her to control herself is apparent.

 _Sickening_.

Feeling Ned's gaze, Leliana turns to him; then she casts a quick glance in Vaughan's direction and lowers her voice to whisper: "You should probably know something. This… room… was in frequent use even before Howe came here."

The realization comes crystal clear.  _'Horrible things were done to me.' Here? In_ this _very room? Oh, Leliana…_

_Alistair will be_ _mad that I've taken her here. Or does he know at all?_

She averts her eyes for a moment. "What are we going to do about all those people?" she asks, still in a low voice.

_All those people, constrained and maltreated at Howe_ _'s whim._

_Young Oswyn_ _._

_A delirious templar, Bann Alfstanna's brother._

_The heir of the Arling of Denerim._

_Maker, thank you for this chance._

"Get them out of here, of course. I just can't figure out how when a half on them are unable to walk and the other just barely so." Ned also keeps his voice low.  _And I have to figure out how to keep Soris and Vaughan from each other – I certainly did not free the elf just to see him murdered on the spot. I will definitely have to speak to him later, to learn some more details about our 'friend' Vaughan_. Ned checks the Arl-of-Denerim-to-be: he hasn't changed his position, sitting on his heels, muttering the plans of revenge. _Had I spoken to Soris first, I would have gladly let you rot in here._

 _If_ _I did not need your vote for the Landsmeet so badly, I would put you back to your cosy cell. We will have to find a way to deal with you later – Alistair will not have such_ filth _in a position of power._

As he watches Vaughan, though, it dawns on him what must be done.

"Leliana," Ned asks, "can you secure the other exit so that no-one gets in for a while?

She nods in understanding. "Yes, and lock Howe's chambers – but I cannot make sure that the door will hold if someone decides to get in before we return from Eamon's estate."

"Not from Eamon's. On the way here, we passed Arl Bryland's residence, just behind the corner."

"Can he be trusted?"

 _I certainly hope so_. "He is on good terms both with the Dragon's Peak and the Waking Seas, so at least in this respect, yes. And he was also my father's friend."  _Though this does not give such credit as it used to._  "We'd also better take Vaughan along, to vouch for my word."

Leliana thinks for a moment, then nods again. "This should work. What about the queen?"

Ned smirks. "Oh, I nearly forgot. She might actually whisper a word or two in Bryland's ear, as well."  _Though with Loghain's daughter, one may never be sure._ "Let us not keep Her Majesty waiting any longer."

_And_ _let_ _'s finally get out of here._


	8. Chapter 8

Approaching footsteps, light and fast.

Cauthrien tenses and gestures at her men. Then, as the Warden and his companions enter the hall, she steps out. For a moment he freezes, his face flashing an emotion she cannot recognize; she also realizes that he is barely surprised.

"Ned Cousland. I'm here to place you under arrest for the murder of Arl Howe and his men," Cauthrien says as instructed. "Surrender, and those with you may leave."

Cousland glances from the left to the right, apparently assessing the odds; Cauthrien hopes, but does not expect, that he arrives at 'overwhelming' – and a part of her is looking forward to the fight, the test of her skill against his. Not that she is going to take any chances, her orders are clear, which spoils her expectation a bit. Nonetheless, she assesses him in preparation, seeing the marks of the previous heavy fight in his face, his posture. There are stains of blood on his armour, some of it definitely his.

 _Light armour_ , as was reported.

The Qunari looks truly impressive but he is only one; the woman with cat-like eyes is obviously a mage – too bad but her men have dealt with mages before; the rest seem unimportatnt.  _It looks like he has picked some trash in here_.

"Ser Cauthrien," Cousland says slowly, "I am afraid that you do not know the whole story."

"I am not here to listen to your stories," she interrupts him. She will have no traitorous talk undermine her men's loyalty or her authority – or even her conviction, for that matter. "Surrender, or fight." And she draws her sword.

In response, he draws his, and the mêlèe starts. The hall is a mess of clinging swords, flying arrows, bolts of ice and fire. While most of her group engage the Warden's companions, Cauthrien and the selected three aim at Cousland himself.  _Dead or alive, preferably the latter. As my Lord commands…_

She holds back at the beginning, studying the Warden's style and movement. Despite the weariness that he must be feeling, he moves with deadly grace – and equally deadly efficiency, slashing at Caspar's throat through the slightest gap in his defence.

A fearsome enemy – fresh and in full plate armour, an equal match even for herself, Cauthrien has to admit.

Even outnumbered, he will be difficult to take down. He will not allow himself being cornered, and in the constant swirling dance her crossbowmen are of little use, the shot would be too risky.

Meanwhile, the Qunari is methodically chopping his way through her men, and Leoric is brought down by an arrow which strikes seemingly out of nowhere. For a brief moment, there is fire all around and Cauthrien quickly shields her face with her forearm; the dragonbone does not even warm up.

 _Tim_ _e to act_ , she decides and switches from defence to active engagement. Her action catches the Warden by surprise and wounds him in the leg – and hardly slows him at all. He fights with grim determination, completely focused on the movement of sword and shield, thrusting and evading.

Then comes the moment. Cauthrien intensifies her attack, keeping Cousland fully engaged. She moves to his right, and as she does so, Desmond disengages from the parry. He glides past the Warden's back, dropping his sword and holding the shield with both his hands.

His movement does not go unnoticed, and the Warden swirls to face the attack. Thus it happens that by his turn, the Warden adds his own momentum as his upper arm meets the edge of Desmond's shield, driven with full strength.

Cauthrien has seen Desmond crush a skull with his bare hands.

The blow brings Cousland down on his knee with a cry of pain. His sword clangs on the floor, the right arm dangles uselessly at his side.

He is far from finished, though, as Desmond finds out at his own expense in a well-meant attempt to grab the injured arm. A shield blow – shaky but still with sufficient strength – hits him in the face and sends him spinning on the floor.

 _The la_ _st harm you ever do_ , Cauthrien thinks angrily as she springs in and administers a harsh kick in Cousland's exposed side. As he bends over, she kicks once more, with all her strength.

A wave of intense cold stops her but for the shortest instant. She grabs hold of the wounded arm and twists it behind his back, forcing him flat on the belly. With her boot between his blades, she presses the point of her sword to his throat. "Cease the fighting if you will him live!" she shouts with the voice trained in the years of practice.

Unsurprisingly, they do. The mage with cat-like eyes stares at her with hatred but the magic light beteween her hands disappears.

Her men gather around her and Cauthrien must suppress the urge to finish the Warden off here and now: their ranks are painfully diminished.

 _Maker's breath, almost a half of them in such a short while_ … Desmond sits on the floor, spitting blood; Caspar's unseeing eyes stare into the ceiling. More names, more corpses.

"Take him," she orders roughly, straightening up. "The rest are of no importance."

She looks aside as they tie the Warden's hands behind his back and haul and drag him out, by no means gently; traitors and murderers deserve no mercy, after all.  _I will have to send for the bodies…_

Abruptly, Cauthrien turns and follows her men into the sunlight.

_'You do not know the whole story' – and I do not wish to. As soon as you're done with, there will no longer be… the need for some necessary things._

She sincerely hopes so.

Cauthrien shivers, then shakes her head. Without a single gance at Cousland, she leads her troop with their prize to the looming tower of Fort Drakon.


	9. Chapter 9

_Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Click, click._

_Stomp, stomp._

_Scratch, scratch, whine, scratch, scratch._

Wynne casts an increasingly impatient lok over her knitting needles. "Why don't you sit down for a moment, my dear? You are disquieting the poor animal."  _And me_.

In confirmation of her words, Wolf whines again.

"They're taking too long!" Alsitair slams his fist against the wooden panelling. "Maker, this waiting is killing me!"

 _The room will be in the need of re-panelling soon_. Wynne sighs and considers something in the line of "patience is a virtue of kings" when Alistair leans to the window. "Oh, finally – "

He never finishes and Wynne raises her head to see him stand frozen against the windowpanes. The next moment, Alistair turns and springs to the door, Wolf following him with a bark.

Wynne blinks. With a feeling of unease, she inserts the needles in the yarn and carefully puts her work aside.

She does not even reach the stairs when she hears unusual commotion in the main hall and above all, Alistair's roar: "What do you mean, 'captured'?"

_Captured. Maker help us._

_Maker help_ him _._

The hall is full of people: there are soldiers with the South Reach coat of arms on their surcoats and their leader, an impressive tall man in full plate armour, is agitatedly talking to Eamon. Leliana is sobbing in Alistair's arms while Wolf sits before them on his hinds, howling; Sten watches the chaos with his usual stoic expression, unmoved like a rock washed by tides; Morrigan –

Wynne has no idea what Morrigan might be thinking, since she looks as if she were not really there, her eyes unfocused, her expression blank.

Then Wynne feels someone's stare on her: blue eyes of a stranger, very pale and leaning exhaustedly against the wall. There is something oddly familiar about him, and when Wynne realizes that, her already speeding heart leaps up a little more:  _a Warden_.  _He must be a Grey Warden. The taint within him is strong, like it used to in Duncan, and he is about the same age: weathered, seasoned veteran. Assessing everyone and everything with cold, rational mind, like Duncan did._

_Like Ned does, on occasions._

_What is he doing here?_

Her heart still races as she settles down in an armchair in the library where they gather for a war council of sorts. The intent is unanimous – rescuing Ned; no-one seems to think that the risk might outweigh the gain, and if they do, no-one dares to voice such an opinion before Alistair.

It is carrying out the plan that causes discrepancy.

"We must not rush things, there will be no second chance." Eamon.

"What we must is get him out as soon as possible!"

"Alistair," Leliana looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, "you cannot fight your way through all Loghain's soldiers in a frontal attack, and sneaking in requires preparations. Besides, we don't even know for sure where he is!"

"I do." Morrigan speaks for the first time since their arrival; for the first time, that distant look in her eyes disappears.

"You do? How?" Alistair's distrust can almost be felt.

Morrigan seems to be loath to answer at first. "I… gave him a ring which allows me to locate him."

_Interesting. Meaning, you pro_ _bably have another for yourself. What other information are you able to extract from it, I wonder?_

"So, where is he?"

"There," she points. "The direction and the distance make it Fort Drakon, I believe."

_The infamous Fort Drakon._

"That makes things a little clearer." Leliana gets up. "I'd better get going. We need to track the periods of changing guards, people coming in and out – "

"But Leliana, it's already almost evening!"

"There's plenty of time till the morning," she retorts and Alistair pales.

"You would let him in there through the night? Don't you realize that Ned might be  _killed_  even before we attempt to rescue him?"

She sets her eyes into his. "If they wanted him dead, they wouldn't have bothered taking him alive – but they will  _certainly_  kill him rather than let us liberate him."

_Oh, Alistair._ _I suppose that sometimes it is better that you do not see all the options._

Leliana mercilessly continues. "Besides, they'll be expecting us to atempt something at night – everyone  _knows_  that night is the right time for sneaking in, so you may count on doubled guards and increased alertness.  _No-one_  expects anything at daylight."

Alistair's shoulders sink. "We  _cannot_  leave him in there," he insists desperately.

"I agree." The support comes from a most unexpected source: Morrigan. "We must get him out and not waste time with idle talking."

"Rush is pointless. Ned Cousland is a strong man, he can endure some discomfort through the night."

"Can he?" Morrigan hisses at Sten. "What do you  _think_  they are doing with him, serving him tea and cake?"

Her words bring about gloomy silence. Wynne opens her mouth to ask but is preceded by Riordan, who insisted at being present even despite his condition: "Is this a guess or do you actually know?"

Morrigan narrows her eyes but answers impassively: "I know that he is in pain."

"He has been injured. You can be sensing this."

_Carefully, Riordan._

Morrigan' s voice drops low, unnaturally blank. "I should have worded it more precisely, then. I can sense horror. Despair.  _Agony_. Believe it or not, I can tell the difference. If you can offer a less sinister interpretation what it means, you are welcome."

"This makes it, then." Alistair breathes hard. "We go now."

"I'm afraid not." Wynne can feel Riordan's eyes on her, understanding _. Is this age that makes one see all those dire choices?_  She hates her sharp mind that sees all the possibilities and consequences; she hates to be the one to bring this on Alistair but she does not shun. "If we fail, they may eventually find a way how to use him against us, and  _that_  is something we must not allow – what Ned himself would never allow. We must wait for our chance, and hope."

"Have faith, Alistair," Leliana says softly. "He will endure; the Maker will not let him fail."

_If only I could share your convictio_ _n, Leliana._

But Wynne's belief in the Maker's providence transpired long ago, even before he let their glorious young king die at the hands of darkspawn, betrayed by the man who used to craddle him on his knees.

Nobody speaks. Alistair watches her with wild eyes but says nothing; yet it is Morrigan's silence that strikes Wynne most: the ever-sarcastic witch does not even snort at Leliana's remark.

Morrigan's eyes are unfocused again, looking past the walls, as if she were not truly there.


	10. Chapter 10

The air stinks with burnt flesh and Loghain holds his breath for a moment.  _A disgusting business, yet not one to be postponed_. He is not the one to avoid duties.

Young Cousland hangs limp in the fetters, sweating and bloodied, his breath ragged to the point of sobbing. Without his armour he looks frailer, and not at all so proud as before.  _He is injured_ , Loghain reminds himself of Cauthrien's report;  _whip and iron wouldn't have got him to such a state so fast_. Yet he does feel a tinge of disappointment: _this one has been such a constant source of trouble for so long?_

He motions the torturers to step aside and moves closer. Realizing his presence, the prisoner slowly raises his head. A moment before the dark eyes focus on him – they they fill with such intense hatred that Loghain involuntarily blinks.  _Not that it matters, I have seen worse from better men._

Loghain lets the silence prolong, then tilts his head and slowly scrutinizes the prisoner from head to toe.

"Quite an unenviable position, don't you think so?" he states in a matter-of-fact voice. "Nonetheless, this is all unnecessary. Yield. You are the last of the Couslands: you will be treated as such and your death will be a clean matter. You may even be graced – you are young and you were seduced by others."

Hoarse and weak as the voice is, it still brims with contempt. "Who are you trying to fool here, Loghain MacTir? We both know how things were. We both know what 'grace' you show to those who cross your way, be their subjects or kings. I will have no dealings with the likes of you, traitor and murderer!"

"You are in no position to judge others, young Cousland – yourself a traitor's son and a murderer who was caught red-handed."

"My father was no traitor!"

_A passionate outcry – truly, so expectable._

The next words, however, hit closer home. "Concerning murders, did Howe give you a full report how a six-year-old was slain, having watched his mother hacked as she was trying to protect him with her bare hands? That was also an act of just punishment?"

"I did not order that." For once, Loghain's tongue betrays him: the words issue on their own before he can stop them.

Ned Cousland's lips crack as they twist scornfully. "Oh, and you minded  _so much_. The Teyrnir of Highever, the Arling of Denerim –  _such_  disapproval. I don't believe you."

"Enough." Loghain is mildly annoyed how easily he gets off balance these days – little wonder with all the stress and strain he has to face.  _With all those stubborn fools I keep running into._  "Believe what you will – you will confess here and now that it was the Wardens who betrayed the king and plotted with Eamon to put an impostor on the throne, and you will confess again at the Landsmeet. In return, your misery ends, your wounds will be treated, your case judged benevolently. Should you be sentenced to death, it will be merciful. Yield. You are almost out of strength, and this was just the beginning. Save yourself the pain."

"Shall I confess a betrayal I did not commit to cover up yours? After we fought through foor floors of darkspawn just to see you retreat? No way!"

The resolute tone is undermined by exhaustion and Loghain scoffs: he has no time for this. He grabs hold of Cousland's jaw, firmly enough to cause pain. "Do you honestly believe that you can hold much longer?"

The answer comes with great difficulty, yet come it does: "This… is hardly… any concern of yours."

Fed up with the play of defiance, Loghain catches the eyes of the torturer standing with the whip ready and sharply nods.

The cracking of the whip is accompanied by loud gasps and uncontrollable writhing of the bonded body.

After a while Loghain motions again: stop. He raises Cousland's head, this time almost gently: closed eyes and trembling lips speak for themselves. "Water," Loghain commands and himself offers the cup.

With his eyes still closed, Ned Cousland faintly turns his head away.

Loghain frowns. "Drink, you fool."

The head remains averted.

 _Not from my hands?_  Loghain shrugs and spills the water on the floor. "Stupid boy," he says coldly. "There is nothing to be gained by stubborn pride or insolence."

The eyes open. The voice is barely audible, the face streaked with sweat. "And what will you do… torture me some more… than you would otherwise? Go on… don't restrain yourself… you're obviously enjoying it."

Loghain suppresses the impulse to slap him for that; he already feels disgusted enough.  _What filth one has to go through_ … "As you wish." He shrugs again. "Do what it takes to break him. And do not give him water until he begs," he commands, turning to the door.

_Choke on your pride, young fool._

The door slams shut and Loghain strides away: there is more important business to be attended. Hopefully, Anora has already been located by more conventional means by now – and if not, Ned Cousland may have something to say to that soon enough.

A long piercing scream reaches Loghain's ears even before he turns round the corner.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the clear starry sky, the darkness behind her window seems darker than other nights.

 _'Me, of course_ ,  _I_ _'ll be needed'_.

Facing the choice, she had been so self-confident.

Now, in the seclusion of her room, the self-confidence has wavered. Wynne's breathing is regular, controlled, but her heart simply won't comply.

_Silly old_ _bat. What do you know of sneaking?_

Pretense, maybe – every teacher has to play a role from time to time, and every mage even more so, in the everyday small victories against the templar's watchful eyes.

Killing – she has done her share of that, too, and not just once, in an open fight and in an ambush.

It's the combination that scares her.

And the outcome if she fails her role.

 _I must get some fresh air_ , she decides in the end.

As she enters the courtyard, she finds out that, unsurprisingly, she's not the only one sleepless tonight. "Alistair? Is anything wrong? Why aren't you in your bed?"

It's disturbing how dark his eyes look in the dim light. "I'm waiting for Leliana, I can't sleep, anyway. Why aren't  _you_  in your bed?"

Wynne laughs softly. "Point taken. I cannot sleep, either."

Alistair shifts on the bench and Wynne sits next to him. After a while, Alistair says slowly, without the bitterness of the afternoon debate: "I should have been there, you know. We are used to watching each other's back in fight, I may have been able to prevent it. And I still should be there tomorrow, for him."

"Alistair –"

He shakes his head. "You needn't reason with me again, once was enough. It's just that I feel so… useless."

_Being tied to a rack next to Ned would be no great use, either._ _Thanks to the Maker that you weren't taken both._

She does not word her thought but Alistair still shoots a glance at her. "You think I'd have made no difference, don't you?"

Wynne keeps her voice neutral. "There's no telling what might have happened."  _Except that you'd rather have got yourself killed than allowed the capture. My dear boy._

They sit a while in silence, then Alistair asks, not looking at her: "How am I supposed to save a kingdom if I cannot save a single friend?"

Wynne sighs.  _No need to reason again, huh?_  All the reasons were laid out, reiterated and yelled while Alistair yelled back that he was not going to stay behind any more. Shouted down, he yielded only very grudgingly, and apparently not for long. Wynne certainly does not feel like going through this again. To her surprise, he doesn't press the issue, only stares into the dark corners of the courtyard. She sighs again and puts her arm around his shoulders. He slides his around her waist, and so they sit quietly until they hear the gate open for Leliana.

The matter of Alistair's sleep is thus resolved, though Wynne suspects that it might take a little longer before sleep takes its place in Alistair's bed; now it's time for her to find a way to subject herself to the Fade.

For a thousandth time in her life, Wynne is sorry she cannot cast a sleeping spell over herself, and so she has to turn to the only person here who could help her. Seeing the light under Morrigan's door, she is unsure whether she should be glad or not; hearty welcome is hardly on the way.

"What do you want?" As expected, Morrigan stares at her with all but open hostility. The fact that they will soon have to rely solely on each other is of little help.

_'And I think Morrigan's company will be essential. Will you come along, Morrigan?'_

_'Of course. '_

Wynne does not bother with civility, given the circumstances it would hardly be appreciated. "I cannot sleep. Can you help me?"

Without a comment, Morrigan nods. She gets up from the table and pours a cup of liquid from a jug on the mantelpiece. Passing her eye over Wynne's skinny figure, she pours off a spoonful and hands the cup over. "This should be sufficient to help you fall asleep and yet let you wake up in the right time."

Only as Morrigan returns to her place at the table Wynne realizes what the young witch has been doing: preparing healing potions and salves.  _Strong ones_.

_Way too many._

"Good that you've taken thought to this," she remarks calmly, "we have run low on our supplies. I suppose we should take some with us tomorrow – half a dozen should suffice."

Morrigan raises her eyes. "You think so?"

Mildly surprised, Wynne realizes that she actually likes the sarcastic, hostile tone better than the impassive one. "Yes, Morrigan. I will have to do most of the healing when we return, anyway, and this amount will do to get him out of there."

Morrigan stares at her a little longer, then without a word she starts putting the excess ingredients away.

_Is it just me, or do her hands really tremble?_

And so Wynne asks, even though she knows she shouldn't: "Any… news?"

Morrigan continues packing the herbs. "He keeps passing out. It cannot last much longer now."

_Unless they get a healer to patch him up a bit so that they can continue throughout the night._

_Oh, Maker._

_I hope that_ _concoction is really strong._

Even with the potion, though, the idea of sleep still seems impossible. Waiting for the desired effect is unnerving, and so Wynne again resorts to an activity: she decides to go and take a look at Riordan. Not that it is really necessary but she has always liked to see that her patients are well.

_It would be nice to see that at least someone, something_ _, is getting well today._

As she leans over Riordan, he wakes with a startle, abruptly sitting up and springing his arms in self-sefence. Recognizing her, he visibly relaxes. Wynne places her hand over her heart: she has had enough shocks today. She certainly did not expect the effect of the drugs to wear off so soon.  _Curse the Grey Wardens and their stamina_. "Oh. I take it that you are feeling better?"

"Much better than in a lifetime." His eyes turn to her questioningly. "Was there a purpose to your visit here in the middle of the night, lady?"

 _One would think that_ _I came to rape him in his bed._  "I was passing by and decided to check on you. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Certainly the best waking I have had of late," he mutters, shifting in the sheets so that she could remove the dressings. "I am honoured by your care but shouldn't you be getting some sleep? There is no easy task ahead of you tomorrow."

"I'm finally getting to it." She suppresses a yawn.  _Before I make an even bigger fool of myself._  "Good night, Riordan."

"Good night to you, Wynne, and thank you."

_Man, you have a very nice smile when you_ _wish to._

His question stops her as she turns to leave. "That… Morrigan who is to go with you… can she be trusted?"

 _You do see a lot, Riordan, don't you?_ And Wynne gives the only reply that she honestly can: "Ned trusts her."


	12. Chapter 12

"You actually expect me to wear  _this_?" Morrigan holds the Chantry robe in her stretched arm. Wynne has seen horse manure treated with greater respect.

Leliana nods. "There is a Chantry altar at the Fort. You can always claim that you were sent from the Chantry in the city as reinforcement, to bring the Chant of Light to the sinners." She clears her throat. "You just… you have to adjust your behaviour a bit to look more convincing. It would be good if you kept your eyes downcast," she tells Morrigan, and with a sidelong glance at Wynne she continues, "and a little display of… simple-mindednes… would be very convincing."

_I bet yo_ _u'll really love this, Morrigan – you playing a chaste, me an idiot._

_Maker certainly likes joking._

"Of course, you'll put these on later," Leliana continues, "we don't want to give them a clue as we leave the estate. I do not doubt that there are a lot of curious eyes outside." She flashes a smile. "I have already given some thought as to making our departure unobtrusive. They will never know that we're up to something right now."

"I hope your plan will work." Sten's velvety voice shows no emotion but Wynne would swear that he is all tensed: warriors are never at ease when it comes down to anything else but open fight.

As Leliana indulges in the details of her plan, the door opens and Alistair enters. Wynne sharply jerks her head to take a full look at him and Leliana chokes in mid-word.

Their valuable asset, the essential part of their long-term plan, is armed and fully armoured, apparently prepared to leave.

What strikes Wynne most, though, is the total absence of smile: very un-Alistair-like. He meets their eyes in silent challenge.

Wynne takes a sharp breath and raises. "What's the meaning of this, Alistair?" she uses her coldest tone, refined in the years of dealing with troublesome apprentices. "I thought that we have arrived at the conclusion that you cannot possibly go."

"No." There is something about him that bothers Wynne very much but she can't quite place it yet. "We have agreed that under no circumstances I should be venturing in Fort Drakon, and I respect the decision. However, if your plan does not come out as expected and there starts a pursuit, you will need every help you can get."

Leliana frowns. "Alistair, if that situation occurs, it will also be very risky. We cannot let you hold out against overwhelming odds just to allow Ned escape –"

"I do not intend to."  _The look, the expression_  – "If that situation occurs,  _I_  will get Ned to safety while  _you_  hold out." Finally, his lips twist but the grimace certainly reflects no mirth. "After all, isn't this what you want me to do? Stay safe and abandon friends for the sake of a greater good, greater gain?"

 _This is_ Ned's _look,_ Ned's _expression!_

_Oh, my._

" _Par'shaara_. This is a nonsense. You will abide by your duty and by your commands."

"Commands issued by whom, I wonder? I can't recall anyone taking over Ned's position."

Sten grunts. "Certainly not by you."

Alistair gazes at him without a motion. "No, I do not aspire at this position… yet. And I'm not taking commands from you, either."

The giant hand falls on his shoulder. "You stay here."

Alistair makes a vain attempt to free himself, then another. "Oh, come one, Sten –" In desperation, he returns to his usual tones and Wynne feels almost disappointed –

– when Alistair unexpectedly moves quickly like a striking snake and the next moment, the Qunari staggers, his nose bleeding.

For a moment, no-one moves, Alistair standing in his battle stance, watchful for Sten's reaction. Wynne feels her heart throbbing in her ears.

Sten slowly wipes the blood. "So, you do have a spine. Pity you don't use it more often."

 _Maker, he is_ smiling _. I will never understand these Qunari._

Alistair does not return the smile. "Just you never place yourself in my way again."

Wynne swallows hard.  _The last attempt_. "Alistair," she says softly, "are you sure of this?  _Will_  you be able to retreat while we fight?"

He turns to her, the untypical graveness quickly peeling off. "My favouritest mage, frankly – I bet my luck that I won't have to. I hope that you won't fail me in this."

Yet, there is a shadow in his eyes that wasn't there before and Wynne realizes that nothing she can say will change his mind. "So do I."  _Because in the long run it would hurt you much more than simply staying back._

_Oh thank you_ _very much for making me feel even more nervous._

Then she frowns because everyone is looking at her with expectation, as if  _she_  was the one to have the final say.  _Mommy Wynne, can I go out?_

 _Well, my boy, you have_ _grown up, it seems, so I can hardly hold you back. Just don't get_ your _nose bleeding. And if you do, don't come running to me because all I'll say will be 'I told you'._

_Alright, maybe I won't, not to you, not this time._

_Provided that I live through this all._

"Very well," she says and turns to Leliana. "You were saying, my dear?"


	13. Chapter 13

_The old priestess stares at him with pale blue eyes wide open."We were sent to bring the Chant of Light to the poor suffering souls that have gone astray. The Maker_ _'s mercy is endless to those who will listen."_

" _We have our own priestesses here." Rhodwin refrains from yawning and he can see Dale rolling his eyes._

" _Surely our sisters need help with the uneasy task. The sinners are many these days."_ Now, isn't it a shame that  _such_  girls are taken in the Chantry _? Rhodwin can surely imagine other uses for_ this _one._ Sin _,_ hmmm _._

_The old crone keeps staring at him expectantly and Rhodwin grins for himself. The Fort has been buzzing with the news that the chief Warden traitor was captured and interrogated. If they allowed one devouted sister rattle his ears off with the Chant of Light, he might cry for mercy soon enough._

Ah, very well. _"You may enter."_

* * *

The dungeon of Fort Drakon is unlike any other Wynne has ever seen, during all her years at the Circle or in the months of travel with young Ned Cousland.

_Or maybe is it that my role here is unlike any other before?_

Sneaking through the dark corridors, killing all the guards they encounter – much the same as what she has done quite frequently, yet not at all the same.

One more guard in a circle of torchlight, one more time to play a daft Chantry lady, drawing his attention, while Morrigan awaits in the shadows, swift and deadly, and merciless.

Together, they drag the body into an empty cell.

"How far yet?" Wynne whispers.

Morrigan concentrates for a moment. "Close," she says. "This way. – Still unconscious," she adds.

_Good news, in a way._

One more corridor.

The sound of a door shut and of clinging metal makes them startle; then they hear approaching footsteps.

A man appears from behind the corner but misses the two women crouching in the dark as he opens a door, letting out a stream of light into the corridor. "Still out," he replies to a question. "Shouldn't we get a healer so that we can continue?"

The answer is lost as he enters and closes the door behind him.

Wynne and Morrigan exchange glances, then they speed down the corridor, to the door which clanged a moment ago.

There is a barred window, in the door, and a torch placed in the holder just opposite, so that a passing guard may check the inmate.

Morrigan is the first to reach the door. Her shadowed face shows nothing but she slowly raises her hand and grips the bars with such strength that Wynne almost expects to hear the sound of breaking iron. Bracing herself, she makes a final step and stands by Morrigan. Then she touches the young witch's shoulder. "I think we need a key," she states very calmly.

Morrigan turns to her, and her eyes  _glow_. "And I know where to find one," she retorts, and softly runs to the door of the lit torture chamber, and the murmur of voices inside. Wynne follows only a step behind, with death magic concentrating around her fingers.

 

* * *

_Ned is dreaming._

 

_The woman of his life is with him; he can feel her touch, smell her scent of herbs and honey and rain. Her warmth seems so real as he rests on her lap._

_He can hear her voice, softly purring in his ear. That's how he knows it's a dream, because she is saying the words she would never say in waking._

_But something is amiss: he feels cold, lying on a cold, hard floor._

_Then the pain returns, and Ned wakes back into a nightmare._

* * *

"He's about to wake – too soon," Wynne observes as she feels the growing tension in the muscles. "It would be good if you could comfort him, so that he doesn't start tossing about."

The look Morrigan gives her as she interrupts dabbing the salve over Ned's battered back is one of sheer horror, and ignorance.

Wynne suppresses a sigh. "Just hold him and speak to him. It does not matter what you say, it's the voice and tone that do the trick." And she returns to casting healing spells over Ned's shins; there is no time to instruct Morrigan even were she willing to listen.

_Maker help me, if I can't get him walking on his own_ _convincingly, we'll never make it out of here._

A moment later, though, Wynne sees that her advice is heeded: with Ned's head on her lap, Morrigan bends over him, speaking very, very softly. Wynne might be able to recognize the words if she tried but she does not; she already feels like a voyeur by merely being present.

_It's the tone that does the trick._

 

* * *

__Rhodwin feigns surprise seeing the two Chantry sisters heading out. "So soon?" he raises an eyebrow._ _

" _Sister Agatha did not wish for our assistance," the pretty one says with a sigh, her disappointment and hurt obvious._

" _I could have told you so," Rhodwin exchanges a knowing smirk with Dale and then frowns, seeing a guard carrying a full sack following the two sisters. "What's that?"_

" _Thanks to the Maker, the captain agreed to provide us excess clothes and other things that we might use as alms for the needy. Maker blesses those who give to the poor, and rejoices in the acts of mercy…"_

 _Th_ _old crone prates on and Rhodwin boredly waves them off. The shift is to end soon and he desperately needs to relieve himself._ I shouldn't have drunk so much with breakfast.

_He forgets all about the Chantry sisters almost before_ _they disappear from sight._


	14. Chapter 14

_They take too long,_  Alistair thinks grimly.  _The guards will be changed soon, and the new set may be more suspicious than the current one_. He takes one more controlled breath, resorting to the mental discipline of his templar training once again. It helps, but barely so: the urge to start pacing, to do  _something_ , is persevering.

_How can he be so_ _calm, so… unmoved?_

It seems that Sten has not changed his position ever since they made the side alley their post. Alistair tilts his head backwards, searching for Leliana perched on the roof behind the chimney: she also remains perfectly still.

_Maker, I hate this. No good at waiting, am I._

A soft whistle, at which Sten jerks his head to look upwards, at Leliana quietly signalling:  _they come_.

Alistair's heart quickens its pace. He listens for another signal, for the tumult at the discovery that the valuable prisoner has escaped, for the beginning of pursuit.

It never comes.

Instead, Morrigan and Wynne, still in their disguise and walking at a casusal pace, turn into the alley, followed by Ned, dressed in the uniform of Loghain's guards and carrying a sack so heavy that he stumbles under its weight –

Alistair rushes to support him even as Wynne turns and invokes a spell, placing her fingers at Ned's cheek. Ned makes an attempt to raise his hands to his head and Wynne stops him, removing the helm herself; then she continues casting.

Alistair feels his stomach tighten. The drawn expression, the sweat, the distant look– he is instantly reminded of the horrible return from Bownammar, the despair in the dark tunnels as they dragged on, driven by the last remnants of will.

_He's on the verge of break_ _ing down._

The spell works: Ned's eyes are less unfocused and he straightens a little.

"We'd better get moving. I'll carry you." Alistair does not recognize his own voice, and cannot quite say himself what kind of emotion is gripping him; if he admitted that it is rage as he has never felt before, he might easily succumb to it.

"I can walk a little further, just lend me a shoulder." Ned also does not sound right; there is a dreamy quality to his voice that makes the lump in Alistair's stomach harden.

"You'd better get rid of the disguises first. Then you two go ahead with Wynne, we'll keep the rearguard."

Morrigan certainly does not wait at Sten's prompt; she has already stripped the robe and throws it in the dust.

Leliana frowns as she slides down from the roof. "Don't leave marks. What's in that sack?"

"Ned's own things, plus what we gathered to stuff it." Wynne sighs. "Alistair, help him to take off that surcoat – you'd better use your knife on it, he shouldn't be raising his arms."

Alistair obeys, quickly cutting the seams on the shoulders. Ned is not particularly cooperative, anyway: he only watches Morrigan, who never looks up to meet his eyes; not even as they turn to leave.

They manage to set out at a satisfactory pace at the beginning, with Wynne re-casting the stimulating spell at regular intervals. They have barely covered half the distance to Eamon's estate, though, when Alistair realizes that the intervals have shortened, and the effect of the spell is weaker every time. Their progress is painstakingly slow now; Alistar's nerves are tensed to the point of breaking, expecting the pursuers at their heels every second.

What troubles him most, though, is Ned's condition: supported by both Alistair and Wynne, he's now being led like a puppet, never raising his head. Wynne has to cast the spells almost continuously to keep him walking, until Aistair loses patience and takes Ned in his arms for the rest of the way.

The absence of protest scares him more than a horde of darkspawn.

Nonetheless, they proceed much faster now since it's over him that Wynne casts supporting spells – even so, Alistair bathes in sweat when they finally make it to the gate.

Alistair ignores the stares and questions; ignores even Eamon who rushes from his chambers. He hears Wyne briefly explaining something and giving orders what is to be prepared, while he carries Ned to his room upstairs.

He closes the door with his shoulder and gently lays Ned on the bed; Ned moans and curls in fetal position.

Alistair takes off his gauntlets and touches Ned's forehead. "We've made it," he mutters. "We've made it, you're safe. Everything will be alright."

Ned's lids squeeze tight and his tremble grades to shudder. His hand moves and Alistair gently presses his fingers. Ned holds to him with the strength of one drowning. "Alistair." The broken whisper brings Alistair's heart to a stop. "Promise you won't let them take me alive again."

The room suddenly lacks air, or so it seems to Alistair who desperately struggles to make his tongue work. Horrified, he sees Ned's eyes well with tears. "I won't," he says, feeling more helpless than any time before. "I won't let them take you, I swear."

He does not realize Wynne's presence until she glides past him and places her hands on Ned's forehead. As she invokes a spell, the tension recedes, the drawn face relaxes.

_Maker be blessed for the sleeping spells._

Wynne gently pats Alistair's shoulder. "That was a natural reaction, after what he has been through. Don't worry, he will be alright. Now, go take off your armour and get yourself a fresh shirt, and then come back, I'll need your help here."

So Alistair does, and uncharacteristically quiet, assists Wynne throughout the rest of the day, till the night. It is only when Wynne's work is finished and Ned lies peacefully asleep, healed for the most part, thatAlistair finally vocies the thought that has been resonating in his head ever since he became fully aware of the extent of the damage inflicted to the one whom he has come to consider his only family in the wide world: "If for nothing else, I will kill Loghain for this."

Wynne turns to him her haggard face. "Should you have any problem carrying this out, you can count on me."

She rises and staggers, and Alistair jumps to her side to secure her. "Thank you, my dear. Now, if you will excuse the old lady, I will retire to my bed and you should do the same." Her features shine with a weary smile. "Meaning your own bed, not mine, you needn't worry."

The return to the usual teasing is reassuring: a proof of things returning back to normal.

Then she staggers again and Alistair snatches her in his arms. Wynne opens her mouth to protest but then sighs and leans her head against his shoulder. "This would be tempting, under different circumstances, but now I'm too tired to tease you anymore. You're such a good boy – both of you, in fact." She yawns. "Be so kind and get Leliana to watch over him and make him drink that brew in the green mug in case he wakes."

Alistair hesitates. "Not Morrigan?"

"No. She definitely needs to take her time. I do not doubt her feelings anymore but I'm afraid that she is capable of remarkable stupidity."

_For Ned's sake I hope that the first part of your assessment is_ _no less right than the second._


	15. Chapter 15

The ceiling looks familiar, the place where he has woken is not the one he remembers last.

His room at Eamon's estate.

_Not the dungeon._

Ned closes his eyes tight but when he opens them again, nothing has changed. He cautiously sits up but the pain never comes; only the familiar stiffness following a major magic healing.

Slowly, Ned pulls off the blanket, examining the areas of fresh pink skin, smoother and somewhat sensitive to the touch; then he presses his hands against the temples. He knows, he remembers how these wounds were inflicted; yet the memory is distant and colourless, as if it happened to someone else, so long ago that it hardly matters.

 _Unreal_ , that's how it feels, like when the demon trapped them in the Fade; yet, his surroundings lack the dream-like quality of shifting shapes. The bed on which he sits is solid, and creaks much the same way as he remembers since his first night here. It is his very presence in this room that seems out of place; the odd sense of strange-familiar like after returning home from a long journey – a journey through the land of nightmares.

_But the dungeon was no nightmare, the scars are a proof._

What Ned finds even more disturbing is his inability to account for all the events since his capture – up to a point, the sequence is clear, but approximately since the disastrous exchange with Loghain, the memories lose consistence and become a set of disconnected images. The reason says that he must have been unconscious more than once but the blanks in the memory still seem too extensive.

_And I also must have been delirious. The image of Morrigan in a Chantry robe can't ha_ _ve been produced by a sane mind, that is for sure._

_Morrigan…_

As Ned looks at his hands, he is surprised to find out that he still wears her ring. As he recalls, the ring was not taken when he was stripped, which surprised him even then: improminent as the ring is, it still has value.

_Is there more to the ring than she has told me?_

_Morrigan_ was _there_ , he realizes,  _and… Wynne?_  His memory contains a vague sensation of Wynne's soothing voice, and the touch of her healing magic, but no more.

Not a clue what might have preceded his waking in his bed.

His fruitless musings are interrupted as the door quietly opens and Wynne peeps in; she seems half-annoyed, half-resigned that he has woken too soon for her liking, and with unusual sternness she orders him to stay in bed. Ned complies, in exchange for a brief account of his rescue, and after she leaves the room, he lies, staring at the ceiling again.

 _So, there_ was _a Chantry robe, after all?_ He can't stop laughing for quite some time.  _I must ask Morrigan how she liked it. Among other things._

As the time passes, Leliana and Alistair come by to chat and carefully avoid saying anything important, and Sten brings Wolf, who jumps on the bed and attempts to lick Ned's face every now and then, profoundly wetting the pillow, until Wynne appears and sends everyone out.

_Really, am I an acid flask about to break?_

Morrigan never turns up.

The ceiling is becoming less and less appealing. Ned would much like to use the time to think over and plan strategies, but since everyone was careful not to provide any information, there is nothing he can build on. He looks with disgust at the green mug with the sleeping potion that Wynne placed just next to the bed, "just in case":  _I think I have spent enough time unconscious to provide for the next ten years._

Finally, the forced serenity and idleness become too much to bear. Ned curses and gets out of the bed, paying attention to every move. A few steps still reveal no major problems, so he gets dressed, determined not to to be confined to the bed again. When no Wynne appears immediately to strike him down with rightful vengeance, he takes the opportunity to shave.

As he washes and wipes his face, he hears voices from the corridor – unsurprisingly, one of them Wynne's.

_Maker stand by me, r_ _etribution on the way._

"I have told Lord Eamon clearly that the Warden needs rest!"

The answer is too hushed for him to hear but he decides to take up the chance.

"Am I needed?" he asks, nonchallantly leaning against the doorframe as he opens the door. The look Wynne gives him would freeze even the lava but the servant looks relieved.

"My lord… Lord Eamon is concerned about your health and asks if you are fit to see him in the library."

Involuntarily, Ned looks at Wynne, whose lips are pressed in a thin line but she says nothing. "It would seem that I am ready for a little walk. Tell Eamon that I will see him in a few minutes."

The servant rushes away and Ned does his best not to shun from Wynne's eyes – it's not so difficult as he expected. "I am feeling fine, Wynne – thanks to you," he says softly, "but I am afraid that we have precious little time left and I cannot spend it idle in bed."

To his surprise, Wynne also replies softly, and looks at him with – compassion? "I only wanted to give you this one day to recover, because you are in need of it more than you realize. You're not going to have any more; as you have said yourself, there is little time left. Do not strain yourself, and come to me should any problem occur."

Surprised, Ned watches her disappearing figure, then shakes his head and makes for the library.

He realizes his mistake as soon as he enters but it is too late to back out now.  _Fade take it, Wynne was right. I'm really not up to this_.

The Queen _._

_What is she doing here?_ _And why didn't anyone tell me?_

The first question is answered immediately but Ned barely listens, even though the fact that Loghain's very daughter has come to seek their alliance and offers yet another source of information to use against her father, is certainly a reward from the Maker. Instead, he is gripped by a strange nausea and it takes him a great effort to pull himself together so that he answers coherently.

Fortunately, it seems that he gives a convincing performance.  _Talking to demons and werewolves is a good practice._

_The 'don't-strain-yourself' instruction is hard to comply with, though._

Finally, Anora rises while he and Eamon make a deference. Her eyes linger on him with an unspoken promise: "You and I should talk before the Landsmeet, my dear Warden. Come and see me soon."

Ned only bows again, unable to answer as the thought he has been holding back since the first moment finally breaks through:

_Loghain's eyes. She has Loghain's eyes._


	16. Chapter 16

_Answers. I need some damned answers._

Ned strides across the corridor to Alistair's room. He knocks profoundly, and waits for the invitation before he enters.

Seeing him, Alistair springs from the armchair. "Hey! Weren't you supposed to stay in bed?"

"I'm quite fine. I'd be even more so if I was informed what was going on around here."

Alistair's smile vanishes. "I am sorry but Wynne ordered it. She insisted that you needed rest and peace, no big issues and stuff, at least for today." He throws his arms wide. "Who am I to dispute a fearsome mage? I hope nothing went wrong?"

_I just ran into Loghain's little girl_ _with her daddy's looks, 'tis all._

Aloud, he says: "The fault is partly mine – Eamon sent for me and I did not expect anyone to be with him, Her Majesty least of all."

"Aww." Alistair makes a sympathetic face. "She has a nasty glare, doesn't she? I guess someone must have told her I was going to steal her throne. But what's her issue with you?"

Ned smiles wryly. "None, so far – in fact, she's offering us yet another piece of rope to hang her father on."

"Oh? Meaning, she is really, really grateful for what you've done for her? Well, she definitely should. What is it that is supposed to break Loghain's neck?"

"A little trip to the Alienage – there's something going on there that he has a hand in."

Alistair narrows his eyes. "How do we know that this isn't yet another trap?" he asks slowly.

"Well – we don't," Ned has to admit.

As expected, Alistair uses Andraste's name in the connection that Chantry would definitely disapprove. "Don't you even  _think_  to make me stay back this time because I'm telling you right away that I  _won't_! After what you've –"

The way Alistair bites his lip and looks aside is definitely suspicious. "Yes, Alistair?" Ned asks softly.  _Really, never good at keeping anything for yourself._

"You… don't remember it, or do you?"

The hesitation makes Ned's heart beat faster.  _No use to tiptoe around this_. "I don't know what you are talking about. Frankly, I remember none of it – none how I got here from – from Fort Drakon. Wynne told me only little, so I've come to ask you." Alistair clears his throat and looks away again, so Ned adds: "In detail, please."

"Details." A sigh. Staring somewhere past the walls, speaking in a calm, controlled voice, Alistair does give the detailed account.

As Ned listens, seated on Alistair's bed, he realizes that Wynne was right once again. He is beginning to feel very tired, and unwell: something is gnawing at him from the inside.  _Maybe it's good that I don't remember that snivelling part._  Frowning, he ponders the final stage of the return from Fort Drakon. "So, you say they never noticed that I was gone until we safely arrived? Did they not even demand later that I be handed over?"

Alistair chuckles. "Actually, Leliana reported that there was quite some fuss in the city just after we made it, and Loghain's guards did come looking for you, once. Eamon's captain refused to let them in and said that he cannot account for the presence of any traitor and murderer in here but that he could tell them about one in the royal palace."

Ned forces a smile, struggling with a strange, nauseating feeling which makes him suddenly perspire and short of breath.

"Ned? Are you alright?"

_Am I?_

His mouth is dry and he swallows with difficulty; his hands are sweating and trembling. "Could you pour me a cup of water?" He does not hear the answer, does not see Alistair's reaction –

" _Don't give him water until he begs!"_

–  _the utter helplessness and humiliation, waiting for another lash –_

Ned gasps at the unexpected vividity of the memory; his muscles tense as if he were struck again. He shakes his head, pushing the memory away, and bends over to lean his elbows on his knees –

–  _his back forcedly bends as his tied hands are pulled upwards –_

– he struggles for breath, like he did back then –

–  _till all his weight rests on the reversed arms –_

"Ned? Ned!"

–  _cannot breathe, cannot even scream –_

"Can you hear me?"

–  _a sharp sound as the shoulder joints snap from their sockets –_

"Maker's breath, what is it with you?"

 _What is it with me?_  Ned realizes that he has slided down from the bed and Alistair is kneeling beside him, holding and supporting him, his face drawn with worry.

"Are you in pain? Shall I call Wynne?"

Ned shakes his head, unable to speak. He is numb and dizzy, and the sweated shirt is getting annoyingly cold against his body. As he slowly becomes more aware of his surroundings, he realizes that he has been clutching Alistair's arm with a death grip. "Sorry," he mutters, releasing his fingers.

"If it helps, you're welcome. What has happened? You've scared me to the Fade!"

 _I've scared myself_. Ned covers his face with his hands for a while, realizing that it is wet with tears.  _Maker, what they have done to me…_

As he leans against Alistair, waiting to regain control of himself, an idea flashes his mind and he shudders; then he feels anger, slowly building inside. "I won't let him break me like this! It's enough what he did to me then, I'm not going to let him win over me again!"

He realizes that he has spoken aloud only when Alistair sharply draws breath: "Do you mean that he  _personally_  – "

"No, Alistair, not like  _this,_  personally." Ned struggles hard to keep his rapid breath under control. "He just stood by. He came round for a little chat, and I didn't know better than to talk back." He shudders again: the emotions just won't comply.  _Did Wynne foresee this to happen?_ He attempts for a smirk. "That big mouth of yours is definitely a bad influence. Don't worry, I'm taking you along to the Alienage, Maker knows what mess you might make here if you were left on your own."

The familiar ground of the banter brings a relief.  _I must give you credit for this, Alistair, it really helps. – Though, you look weird now, man._

"It  _is_  my fault, after all. I should have been there."

 _Oh no._   _After all that time when I was blessing the Maker that I was right to have left you behind..._ "Alistair, don't blame yourself. I sure don't blame you. Honestly. Really, really. I simply thought that I could handle anything coming my way, and got my lesson."  _One that I'm not going to forget._  Angrily, Ned clenches his fists as yet another wave of shudder grips his body.

Alistair stares at him a little longer, unconvinced, then finally nods. "Alright. What now?"

Ned laughs, surprised how quickly the emotions flopped on the other side. " _Right_   _now_ , I guess I could use a bath; I'm just afraid that you will have to help me to my room. – Please, don't make this your hobby."

Later, as he subdues himself in the hot water, the tension of the body is relieved while that of the mind is pushed aside: he has to plan a lot, and carefully.

The idea is slowly getting shape.

He is still lost in thought as he sits by the window while the servants dispose of the bath and sunlight slowly tinges red.

_Time for the green mug, it seems. I don't feel like testing my_ _newest nightmare today._

Just as he is about to take a drink, there is a knock on the door.

 _Riordan_?

The senior Warden assesses him for a while, then remarks: "You seem no worse for wear after your stay at Fort Drakon."

 _You think so?_  Ned keeps a polite face. "Wynne is a great healer."  _As you have found out yourself. And I do not want to know what kind of dreams_ you _have._  "Was there anything you needed?"

"I understand that you have spoken to Eamon, and Her Majesty. May I ask what your intentions are?"

 _That's very simple, Riordan._ "To win the Landsmeet."  _And no, I'm not going to tell you the details._


	17. Chapter 17

_Neglected and unwanted._

He thought that his own life was a very embodiment of these, yet the visit of the Alienage has taught Alistair new depths of meaning of the words.

The shabby houses, the ragged people…. The looks of despair, and hatred.

 _It is even worse than the Dusttown_. With their good clothes and fine armour, they were drawing attention even there – but there, Alistair was not one of those who caused all that misery.

_Human_ _s. 'Shems.'_

" _What do you want, shem?"_

" _Spare a coin for a veteran, sir?"_

_What do you want here? Leave us alone!_

_The fact that we've actually come to help is of little use._

The diseased, crouching in the streets, shunned from by everyone.

The crippled, the maimed, the poor and helpless.

Men, women, children – all alike

_The Alienage._

The girl may be ten or eleven at most; with hair so pale blond that it is almost silvery, and clear purple eyes, too large for her tiny face.

Eyes full of despair.

_The coin Ned gave her_ _might save the girl for today, but what about tomorrow?_

_What about all the others, and all tomorrows?_

_And as if this wasn't bad enough as it is, these 'healers' preyed on the poor folk._

Alistair cleans his blade at the Tevinter's robe and straightens up, suppressing the urge to kick the dead body. He is a templar, schooled in history. He knows the role of elves in the Tevinter imperium, and the Tevinter magic. Nothing good could have awaited those who entered this house, with a false hope of help. He answers Ned's glance with a nod.  _Let's find the den of this filth._

The filth, of course, keeps guards. And quite… pretty.  _Hey, what's a pretty girl – a pretty_ elf _-girl like you – doing in a_ slavers' _business? 'Tevinter first, huh?'_

"You will regret this! Believe it or not, we've been given a dispensation to do our business here. You Fereldans talk a great deal about how very wrong slavery is, but isn't it funny how quickly the smell of gold overcomes these ideals?"

Some _Fereldans, if you please. And don't worry, they wil be dealt with later. This is just one more item on the list of your sins, Loghain_. Alistair takes a side-look at Ned. Given the time they have spent together, he can see the unmistakable marks of barely contained fury. The elf, though lacking the experience, is clever enough not to press the issue.

"I'm no fool. I can see what you are capable of. So be it. I will let Caladrius deal with you before I fetch the Regent's men."

 _Oh. Not so clever, after all_. To Alistair's surprise, instead of signalling the attack, Ned laughs; that kind of laughter always gives Alistair creeps even though he is on the  _safe_ side: "Give the Regent my regards while you're at it. Tell him I'm looking forward to meeting him again, we have not finished our little talk about betrayals."

 _I just hope that we deal with this_ ' _Caladrius_ ' _fast, whoever he might be._

Caladrius turns out to be a Tevinter mage with an exceedingly big ego and an equally exceedingly poor business sense.  _Does the guy really think that we would let him take these people as slaves? – Oh yes, the swamp-witch probably would. And does he really think that getting away alive is not a bargain? Tut-tut_.

The fight is tough but Alistair has seen worse – and two warriors with templar training do make a difference, as Caladrius finds out soon enough. Pleading for his life on his knees, he is much less self-confident than before – but no better at bargaining, still. His eyes bulge in shock, staring at the blade thrust in his chest almost up to the guard.

_The worst offer you could have made, and the worst pick of a person you made it to._

Leliana is immediately engaged unlocking the cages and the manacles of the slaves-not-to-be while Wynne stares at the corpse with almost a predatory look.  _Blood magic. A mass sacrifice_.  _No wonder Ned has a problem drawing the blade out, he drove it with such force that it must have got stuck in the spine. Man, I can't recall seeing you so furious before._

Nonetheless, as he thinks of it, Ned does fight today with unusual fierceness. Before Alistair can asses the meaning of this, he notices that his friend's behaviour has drawn Wynne's attention, too. Stretching and flexing his shoulders is definitely nothing Ned usually performs after a fight, and Wynne looks rather vexed as she hustles to him: the series of fights definitely do not fit under the description of "convalescence stroll", as Ned had put it earlier.

"Everything is fine, 'was just testing," he hears Ned saying with a tinge of irritation. "Mother hen Wynne," he mutters as he approaches Alistair, checking the Keening's blade once again before returning it in the sheath. He shakes his head, patting the hilt. "Can't really imagine fighting without this one any more. Good that Cauthrien didn't take it along, I doubt very much I'd ever see it again."

"Well, the charges were against you, not your sword," Alistair replies. "Speaking of Cauthrien: how fast do you think she will run when the elf tells her we're here?"

"Faster than you think if you indulge in idle talk."  _Oh Sten, I love your social skills so much_. "Our business is finished here. Let's leave."

They do, but as they are coming near the gate Ned stops. "There is something I have to attend to yet. No need to come along," he calls over his shoulder as he spurts to a house in the shade of the city walls.

_Oh, my._ _Is it really necessary to pull the snake by the tail?_

Remembering yesterday, Alistair realizes that it probably is.  _I just hope that you know what you are doing._


	18. Chapter 18

The marching footsteps and shouted orders approach only a few instants after they have ducked in a side alley, and then disappear behind the Alienage gate.

Alistair and Ned exchange amused glances, Leliana shakes her head.  _You were right, Ned, they are so stupid as to expect that we would be waiting for them in there._

Wynne doesn't share their amusement. "That was quite close, and an unnecessary risk. What was so pressing that it had to be dealt with immediately?"

She gasps as Ned unexpectedly grabs her in his arms and kisses her cheek. "A personal matter, my dearest mage," he flashes a smile as if it was a sufficient explanation and pretends to ignore Morrigan's frowning brows.

_Andraste's bosom, is she… jealous? I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't just seen it._

As they proceed through the market, somewhat less busy at this hour, Alistair asks Ned in a low voice. "That personal matter… was it about the little girl we saw begging in the street? You seemed very… concerned."

"Amethyne. Her name is Amethyne." Ned is staring straight ahead but since Alistair continues looking at him, he adds: "I knew her mother. She… was at the Highever castle… on that night."

"Oh. I see." Alistiar considers this for some time. "Is this why you were so vexed when we first found out that the Alienage was closed?"

"Exactly. I wanted to find the girl and provide for her – I owed it to her mother. I arranged it with Soris." A pause. "And it had to be done today because there may be no time for that after tomorrow."

 _Meaning, there may be no 'after' after tomorrow._ "Well… but shouldn't you have talked to the girl yourself? You could tell her – "

Ned turns to him abruptly. "Tell her what?" he hisses. "'Hello, I bedded your mommy once, and she died a minute after she got up from my bed?' Surely the kind of stuff young girls love to hear!"

Alistair only stares at him, aware that he is gaping but currently unable to do anything about it, so shocked by the reaction.  _As if he hated me…_

A second later, Ned closes his eyes for a moment and wipes his hand over his face. "Sorry," he mutters. "I – I am sorry."

"It's alright." But it sounds false even to himself.

"I'm sorry,"Ned repeats, and the tone of panic in his voice finally brings Alistair to understand.

"It's alright, brother," he says softly and means it this time.  _Really, Alistair, your usual idiotic way. Did you honestly believe that everything could be right just over one night?_ "Are you – " he bites his tongue.  _Even better, asking when he's obviously not_.

Ned laughs softly, and bitterly. "As alright as I can be, given the circumstances." He takes a deep breath. "Don't worry, I  _will_  be alright. I just have to stop snapping at people." Another breath. "It will be much better when this is safely over. There is a lot I have to deal with, one thing after another." His eyes stray to Morrigan who walks ahead of them, ignoring the looks of the passers-by drawn by her provocative outfit. "One thing after another," Ned repeats softly and turns back to Alistair. "Which reminds me: have your silverite thoroughly scrubbed and polished for tomorrow, we want you all nice and shiny."

"I thought we decided that I should be wearing Cailan's armour for the Landsmeet?"

Ned chuckles. "Nope, I've come up with an even better use for it – you're going to love this when I tell you. Get the silverite ready, I hear that this was Maric's favourite colour."

_Well, this is probably the first good thing about being Maric's son. I like silverite, too._

Reminded once again of tomorrow's trial, Alistair hushes his voice even more. "And what about… her? What role have you devised for her?"

Ned doesn't look at him. "I have to speak to her yet."

_Is it just me or are you avoiding the answer?_

But before Alistair can frown and enquire any further, Ned grins and pats his shoulder. "First things first. Haven't we earned a decent lunch today? With some cheese as a desert?"

Wolf barks excitedly in agreement and starts dancing about, effectively hampering both walking and the conversation, until Ned grabs him by the collar and calms him down, partly by threats, partly by a generous promise of morsel bones.

_You always have your way with everyone, don't you?_

As the gate of Eamon's estate opens for them, Alistair turns and looks back, to the Alienage. "When I am king," he says with resolution that surprises himself most of all, "I will do something for all those people. I will not tolerate any of my subjects treated like this."

"I would expect no less from you." Ned's expression is grave, and controlled. "When the time comes, remind me to tell you something about our valuable supporter Vaughan Kendalls. This is also something you will want to deal with. – But as I have said, first things first." Saying that, he takes Alistair by the arm and together they pass through the gate, long before Loghain's men realize that their prey has eluded them once again.


	19. Chapter 19

"Slavery?" Anora cannot believe her ears at yet another display of her father's foolishness.  _Unbelievable_.

The man before her gravely nods. "I have secured the documents with his personal seal and signature as a proof."

Anora ponders the option for a moment.  _Convincing as it might be, the nobles will not be particularly enraged since it concerns only the elves. How fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on the point of view._

She shifts in her chair, rewarding Ned Cousland with an appreciatory smile. "You have done a great deal of work in a very short time – hardly surprising for one of your esteem, and of your background. Let me tell you that I loved and respected your family, your mother Eleanor being especially dear to me. It was horrible what Howe did, and it was only proper that he met his fate from your hands."  _And what a pity that you let yourself get caught afterwards – but perfection is truly hard to find these days._

He slightly bows in response to her words, then sets his dark eyes on her. "Does Your Majesty wish to speak about family matters?"

 _Right to the point, are you. I have expected more… subtlety, though the fact is that it is unnecessary now._  She smiles again. "I wish to discuss with you the terms of our alliance, which would be highly advantageous for us both. In the days to come, you voice will be heard, and will have its weight at the Landsmeet. Nonetheless, my father is still deeply respected and even with the proofs you have, his position will be difficult to shatter. The outcome is still uncertain – unless you have secured a major boon on your side." She makes a slight pause, to emphasize her words. "My support. Not only can I vouch for your arguments, but your union with your enemy's daughter will present you as the one who truly acts in the best interest of Ferelden."

He watches her, impassively. "And what do you expect in exchange for your support?"

" _Your_  support, of course, for my claim for the throne."

Ned Cousland leans back in his chair, his eyes not leaving hers for an instant. "As you certainly know, Alistair is a dear friend of mine, and his claim as the only living Theirin is greater than yours."

"Certainly."  _But you do not deny me straight away, do you?_  "Alistair is a good man – but consider this: will he also be a good king? What Ferelden needs now is not a good man but a good leader – and we both know that leadership is not among Alistair's chief qualities. He may find these traits in himself with time, but time is what we cannot afford to waste. We need a strong leader  _now_."

"And that leader is to be you."

His tone suggests none but Anora still scoffs at an even imaginary hint of disdain. "I have been the leader of this nation in all but name for the last five years. I, not Cailan; keep that in mind." She forces herself to calm down. "And you should also give a thought to this: the gratitude of a strong queen is worth more than that of a weak king. The Teyrnir of Highever being the first sign of that gratitude to come, of course."

The long silence tells her that her words have hit home. When Ned Cousland speaks again, it is in a low voice, in a very different tone: "And what if you had a strong king by your side?"

Anora flutters her eyelashes, as if in surprise.  _So, it_ has _come to this. It's good to be right, though I'd much prefer if you stuck just with lands and titles._ "Why – oh. Well, as a Cousland, you are more than acceptable, both for me and for the noblemen. Is that what you propose? Your support for my hand?"

His features lighten up with a quick smile as he glances over her figure in a way Anora  _hates_.  _Males and their desires_. Of course, Erlina reported about his involvement with that… mage.  _'Seems to prefer sensual types_. _'_ Which is good, because shehopes to keep the … _fumbling_ … to the necessary minimum.  _I just hope that h_ e _'ll be more discreet than Cailan in finding his outlets._ For the show, Anora briefly downcasts her eyes, hoping for a little blush. "Do we have a deal, then?"

The previous intent look returns. "There are some matters to be decided yet. In particular, your father's fate."

"Despite all he's done, he's still my father. I'd wish for a way that his life could be spared." She lets her voice lose some of its composure and observes the outcome. She only wishes that he makes the right conclusion; stubborness would be a complication.  _A slight one_.

He watches her so long that she is beginning to feel uneasy. "You ask a lot."

_But not 'too much'._

After another while, Ned Cousland finally says: "Very well. Let him live. His abilities could still come to a good use against the Blight. But when this is over, I have full confidence in you to make sure that I see as little of him as possible."

"Of course."  _Though I do hope that you change your opinion with time_.

"That's not all. I will request a special boon as a reward. Persuading Alistair to agree to this will be much harder than simply to give up a crown he never wanted."

"What kind of boon?"

"I am sure that we will arrive at a convenient compromise when the matter arises."

Anora is not particularly fond of unclear pledges but this is of minor importance now. "I agree. Do we have a deal, then?" she repeats, smiling.

"We have a deal."

She allows him to kiss her hand as he takes his leave, and does not protest when his lips linger more than the convention allows. Only when the door closes behind him, she lets her features show a content smile as she recapitulates the debate.  _It went better than I expected. How true that everyone can be bought, it is only a matter of price._

_Everyone._

_How very fortunate. You will make a fine Prince Consort, Ned Cousland – not king, I only have to watch your ambition. I'm not going to share my power._


	20. Chapter 20

"Morrigan."

"Yes?" The hostile tone shatters the hope of an easy conversation, yet only further fuels his determination.

"You haven't given me a chance to thank you yet."

"Well, if this is supposed to mean 'thank you', then you're welcome. Was this all you wanted?"

Ned does not sigh, even though he much wants to. "No," he says. "I want to thank you properly. Thank you, Morrigan, that you came for me."

As he leans to her for a kiss, she turns her head away, to offer a cheek instead of lips. "Of course I came," she says with annoyance, "that's why I gave you that ring, so that I could find you."

"I was actually surprised I still had it…"

She snorts. "What use would be giving you a tracking ring if anyone could just take it? It's enchanted to be inobtrusive, unless you do something as stupid as to draw attention to it. Now, are we done with civilities? I have some business to attend to."

 _You do_ _n't expect me to believe this, I hope_. "No. Wait. I have to speak to you."

"You already do. So, what is so urgent?"

Instead of an answer, Ned pulls her closer and kisses her again. Almost instantly, she breaks away from the kiss. "I'm in no mood for such nonsense. Leave me be."

"Morrigan – "

"I said, leave me!"

"Damn it!" Running out of patience, Ned grabs her by the arm. "Is there any sensible reason why you keep refusing me?"

She shoots a warning glance at the hand holding her arm. "Let go."

"Not until you have answered me."

Narrowing her eyes, she tries to pull herself free, and when she fails, she hisses like a wildcat and rakes with the other hand against his face.

Ned blocks the attack and grips her wrist. "Morrigan – "

"Let me go!" Her eyes flashing wild, she accentuates her words by a half-successful kick in his kneecap.

 _Impossible woman_! Ned grunts and after another attempt at kicking, he throws her on the bed, effectively pinning her down with his weight. "Will you finally listen – "

Her energy suddenly surges but as he focuses his mind, the spell harmlessly evaporates, leaving only a tinge of sleepiness. The next move comes reflexively, as in every fight.

Morrigan gasps as her mana is drained. "Let me go!" The first time, her voice shows something else than anger. "Or do you intend to force yourself on me?"

Ridiculous as the idea might seem, Ned realizes that it does sound appealing – being so close to her,  _feeling_  her against him, her breasts heaving, the pulse throbbing on her throat – it strains his self-control to the limits. "No," he says, trying to slow down his breath, "but I am going to force out some answers."

It's not relief that he sees in her eyes, though. "Let me go," she repeats almost desperately, "there is really nothing to say. I told you, I  _told_  you that it was no good carrying on with this weakness but you wouldn't listen. Why are you so intent on it now?"

 _Because I cannot go on like this. Because I'm running out of time_. "Morrigan," he says, also on the verge of despair, "when you said once that you considered your feelings for me a weakness, I thought you needed time to see that it is not so, that you shouldn't trust all that Flemeth taught you. How do I possibly weaken you?"

"It's – I – " She tries to wriggle out of his grasp once again. "This is pointless! If you're not going to have your way with me, then let me go, Ned!"

_Stop asking for it, woman, or I can't_ _warrant anything! Actually, would you be more disappointed if I did, or if I didn't?_

It's really difficult to keep clear mind, feeling her warmth, smelling her scent of herbs and honey and –

The memory hovers somewhere between dream and consciousness, yet it finally gives a clue. "Morrigan," Ned says softly, leaning even closer to her, "you've been avoiding me ever since the return from Fort Drakon. Will you please tell me why?"

Her lashes flutter as she abruptly turns her head away, and at that moment, Ned is all of a sudden certain that she is holding back tears. "Morrigan," he repeats like an incantation, "Morrigan."

"Let me go," she wails.

"No. Why are you doing this to me, to  _us_?"

"There is no 'us'! Cannot be! Never, ever, do I want to feel again the way I did when I knew all along what they were doing to you!"

Finally, he has his true answer, yet hardly one he hoped for. He lets go her wrists, half expecting renewed struggle, but when she does not move, he gently touches her face. "I'm sorry about it, Morrigan. I'm so sorry but it's over now." He caresses her temples with the tips of his fingers. "Nonetheless, there is also the other side to the coin – all along, I knew I had to hold on just a little longer, until you come for me. Do you think I wouldn't come for  _you_  if it was the other way round?"

She keeps silent so long that Ned feels acute pain, spreading within, but finally she says in a small voice: "You would. I know that you would, but – but – "

"Morrigan. Nothing ever comes without a price – of all the people, I'd think that you would understand that. And I'd never think that you would be too cowardly to pay it."

"I'm not cowardly! It's just – "

"Morrigan." He brushes his lips against her face, softly breathing at her cheek. "I do not ask you to pledge yourself to me forever."  _Though I'd love to_. "As you have said yourself, there is no future for us together, anyway. I am a Grey Warden, I  _don't_   _have_  a future. If the Landsmeet goes badly for us, I may as well be dead this time tomorrow, and even if we succeed, there is still the Blight and the Archdemon to deal with. What chances do I stand to survive that, what do you think?" Ned stops whatever she wants to say with a finger over her lips. "Let me finish. We may not have a future but we still have the present, the little what is left of it. Should we waste it because of fear?"

Still, she says nothing.  _Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn woman!_

"Morrigan. I love you, I want you, I need you – do you feel the same for me?" She stares at him, her eyes open so wide that he can see something vulnerable deep within, and hurt, in desperate need of healing.

In a flash of instinct, he rolls over with her so that she is on top of him, unrestrained but for his loose embrace. She looks at him, stunned, but not running away.

"Or, if this is too hard for you to say it now – can you claim the contrary? Say that you don't love me, don't want me, don't need me, and I let you go this instant."

"I – " her voice breaks, and she closes her eyes, all tensed.

Tensed, but not running away.

Ned slowly caresses her lips with his thumb, feeling the soft ragged breath; follows the line of her jaw to the ear, slides down her throat, to the spot trembling with rapid pulse. "Morrigan," he whispers as he places his lips against that spot, "once I had a dream where you freely said all those things you cannot say now. Was it a true dream?"

She still does not answer, and so he repeats the question, trailing with his lips up her throat, to her mouth: "Was it true?"

 _Yes_ , her lips reply, softening and parting against his;  _yes_ , her body archs to him as he touches the hardened nipple and then takes it in his mouth through the thin fabric while his hands stray under the tunic, knowing their way, removing all that stands between them.

 _Yes_ , her hips rise against his as he thrusts in her,  _yes_.

 _Yes_ , she says with every move meeting his.

He comes too fast, and so he continues with his mouth and hands and the intimate knowledge of the ways to please her, till she tightens around his fingers, gasping his name.

She never did that before.

_Ned, yes._

He continues caressing her, ready again and proceeding more slowly this time, intent on every touch, every single inch of her skin, abandoning words and letting the body speak.

_I love you._

Ned hopes that this time, at least for this once, she may understand.


	21. Chapter 21

"Heck!" Alistair grabs the bloodied towel in yet another vain attempt to ease the damage, then sighs in resignation.  _Just like me, making a mess of my face right on the day when every single damned aristocrat of Ferelden is going to stare at the infamous bastard of Maric's. Great._

There is but one option. Making sure that no-one is passing by at the moment, Alistair darts across the corridor and knocks on Wynne's door. "Er, Wynne, could you…" he gestures at the bloody results of his shaving.

The corner of her mouth twitches only slightly as she invokes a healing spell. "Wash your face properly, my dear. We don't want our future king all smudgy."

_Even greater. Thanks so much._

The breakfast takes place in grave silence, without the usual banter. Alistair can feel Morrigan's ironic glances on himself:  _What is it, Alistair, run out of jokes?_

 _Suit yourself_ , he thinks angrily as he nibbles at the oatmeal.  _Definitely unappetizing. Where is that damned Grey Warden appetite when one needs it?_

"Alistair, are you listening?"

"What?" he startles.

"I said, 'stop staring at that oatmeal as if it was genlock excrement, the rumbling of your stomach won't secure any votes at the Landsmeet."

_On mornings like this, I really, really hate you, Ned Cousland!_

Though, when he takes a closer look, Ned's plate is also considerably fuller that it should be by this stage of the breakfast. "Just following your example, oh fearless leader."

The sour look he receives in answer definitely improves his mood, for a few seconds.

As he puts on his silverite armour, polished to blinding sheen, his hands tremble so much that Leliana's assistance comes more than handy.

When he tries to fasten an uncooperative buckle for the tenth time, Leliana laughs softly. "Oh, come on, Alistair, it won't be so bad. You're to be crowned, not executed."

"The other option is almost more appealing."

It's definitely past him why she laughs even more but he doesn't protest as she stands on her toes to kiss him.

The kiss would have been much more reassuring if her hands were not ice-cold.

They're the last to join the others in the entrance hall and Ned gives them an impatient glance.  _Why,_ you _insisted on setting out after Eamon, didn't you?_

"Ready?"

 _Ready, oh Warden Commander. As ready as I can be – and I do hope that I won't throw my breakfast on that pretty breastplate of yours. Though, it has definitely seen much worse defilement. Not that I'm particularly picky about taking equipment from the dead, but putting on something worn by the dead who walked and talked while happily rotting_  –

Remembering Sophia Dryden's decaying face was not the brightest idea and Alistair takes deep breaths, grateful for the fresh air as they leave the estate.

The royal palace is much closer than he would have preferred, and as they approach, Alistair's nervosity has reached unknown peaks. With every step, he grows more and more certain that the oatmeal will see the daylight again… right before the gathered nobles of Ferelden.

 _Politics_. Of all the beasts and monsters he has faced, this one scares him most.

They pass the gates, unhindered, unattacked. Ned doesn't look left or right, simply marches on, as if no-one and nothing could ever stop them.

That is, until they enter the ante-chamber.

Ser Cauthrien, and not alone.

 _I knew this was all too easy._ Seeing her, and the oncoming fight, Alistair suddenly realizes that his nervosity is gone.

_The goal is clear._

_There is but one obstacle to be removed._

"Ned Cousland. I am not surprised it has come to this."

It keeps mystifying Alistair what a sweet, girly voice the woman has; it makes her somewhat less detestable and he has to remind himself hard that she is simply another lackey of Loghain's…

_Not just 'another'. The one who caused Ned all that misery._

Probably drawn by his glance of hatred, she shifts her attention to him. "And you, Alistair… if you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric's son, you would already be in the Landsmeet, now wouldn't you?"

_Hey, it wasn_ _'t me who desired a special entrée!_

It seems, though, that the question was purely rhetorical, as Cauthrien's eyes immediately return to Ned. "You have torn Ferelden apart to oppose the very man who ensured you were born into freedom! Do not think you will get past me to desecrate the Landsmeet itself. The nobles of Ferelden will confirm my lord as Regent and we can put this to rest once you are gone."

 _And_ we _put this to rest once_ you _are gone._

"Do you  _really_ not see what Loghain has become?" Ned asks very softly. Alistair holds his breath: he already knows that intent, hypnotizing gaze, and its impact on those who stand in the way. Cauthrien is no different: for all her bravado, she briefly averts her eyes, and before she can regain composure, Ned continues: "But of course you do. What will you do about it, Ser Cauthrien – will you just close your eyes like you have so far?"

"I… have had… so many doubts of late." She bites her lip, struggling with herself, and sounding even younger. Watching her, Alistair almost finds himself sympathetic: the shell of the confident warrior has broken and revealed a woman full of uncertainty. "Loghain is a great man, but his obsession with the Orlesians has driven him to madness." Her voice breaks. "He has done terrible things, I know it, but I owe him everything. I cannot... Don't ask me to!"  _Yet still she defends him…_

"All I ask is that you let me stop him. You know there is no other way. This cannot be allowed to continue. For the sake of Ferelden."

_Now you've got her._

"I never thought duty would taste so bitter..." Cauthrien is definitely holding back tears but she has come to a decision. "Stop him… stop him from betraying everything he once loved." She falls on her knees, her eyes never leaving Ned's. "Please, show mercy. Without Loghain, there would be no Ferelden to defend!"

"He will have the mercy he deserves." Ned's voice shows no emotions and he keeps looking at her until Cauthrien lowers her head.

"Go, then," she whispers barely audibly.

As they approach the large, ornamental door, Alistair's heart slightly speeds up again.  _The final reckoning has come, and whatever else awaits behind that door. My own fate._ _And Loghain_ _'s, who deserves no mercy at all._

He exchanges glances with Ned, and together they push the door open.


	22. Chapter 22

_Traitor. You will also be reckoned with_ , Loghain thinks as he listens to Eamon, welcoming the nobles at the Landsmeet.  _You used to be a fine warrior, a trustful ally, a worthy opponent – until you married that Orlesian whore who poisoned you with her scheming._

 _What a shame that I have to let you try and poison the ears of others_ _; but I cannot interfere with the one who called the Landsmeet_.

_It was a mistake to be merciful with you._

So far, Eamon says nothing of importance, as can be expected from an introductory speech but even so, it pains Loghain that he has to tolerate this farce. Meanwhile, he makes use of the time to watch the reactions of the audience. From his position near the dais with the throne, Loghain can see almost all the faces of those present, and also of those accompanying Eamon.

Neither Alistair nor Ned Cousland are there.

_Ned Cousland._

Loghain can barely contain his fury. To think that he already had the insolent pup! When the trembling captain reported that the prisoner had escaped, he nearly had all the guards executed on the spot.  _Incompetent fools!_

He does not know why the bastard and Cousland are staying back; however, when the guards reported that Eamon arrived without them, Loghain made his precautions.

_Whatever it is that you plan, I'll thwart it._

_Kind of unpleasant if your precious pretender does not turn up, Eamon, what do you say?_

He would much like to think that young Cousland has turned tail but his messing with the Tevinters shows that he has not learned his lesson.  _Undoubtedly, you are going to use that unsavoury business against me, as well as my association with Howe – well, you are welcome to try your luck; after all, I have a thing or two to say_ your _way, as well._

_Anora. What have you done with her, you bastards?_

Finally, Eamon's speech is coming to an end, and he receives mild applause.

 _Time to act._  Loghain joins in, clapping exaggeratedly. "A fine performance, Eamon, but no-one here is taken in by it." As he speaks, he notices some commotion as the entrance and with disgust he recognizes its source.  _So Cauthrien has failed…_  The disappointment mingles with a surprisingly acute sense of loss –  _she'd never let him past while alive –_ but he cannot dwell on it at the moment. Pretending not to notice the newcomers, Loghain continues: "You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it. The better question is, who will pull the strings!"

By this time, Ned Cousland and his suite are almost half-way across the chamber – just in time to focus the attention on them. "Ah! Here comes the puppeteer!" Taking a full look at Cousland, Loghain almost scoffs, seeing the griffon emblem on the blueish dragonbone.  _You dare to display the sign of your betrayal?_   _And you have put the bastard in silverite to mimic Maric? How cheap of you!_  He is somewhat puzzled, seeing the draped objects, carried by an old mage and a red-haired young woman. _What is it that those lackeys of yours are carrying, baskets for your heads when I'm done with you?_

As they come closer, Loghain uneasily notices that there seem to be no marks of fight on their armour: has Cauthrien failed so much?

 _Or has even_ she _betrayed me?_

 _Later. I will deal with this later._  Loghain musters all his derision and contempt to continue: "Tell us, young  _Cousland_ : how will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince? What did they offer you? How much is the price of Fereldan honour now?"

Cousland does not respond immediately; instead, he walks with his suite to the dais. The old mage take off the drape from the object that she is carrying, for everyone to see. Loghain feels the breath catch in his throat, and the ranks of the gathered noblemen murmur like trees in the wind.

A burial urn. With the royal insignia.

_Cailan's ashes._

_How_ dare _they for such a fraud?_

The woman, kneeling, places the urn on the dais with the throne. The red-haired girl also uncovers her load, and Loghain is barely surprised to see the familiar glint of gold of Cailan's breastplate and helm. He knows he has to act, and quickly, to shatter the effect of this unbelievable forgery, but as he opens his mouth to do so, Maric's bastard unsheathes his sword and places it next to the urn and breastplate, provoking yet another wave of awed whispers.

Everyone here knows and recognizes the glistening blade with the blue-glowing runes alongside. It's become a legend, as well as the one who wielded it.

_Maric's sword._

_Lost with Cailan at Ostagar._

_So, if they have the sword…_

The Landsmeet chamber is dead silent as Ned Cousland turns to Loghain, his voice ringing clear: " _ **I**_  am not the one who betrayed Ferelden!"

In response, Leonas Bryland stands up at the gallery. " _Some of us are curious_ **,** _Loghain_ **,** about precisely what happened at Ostagar!"

Loghain swallows hard, struggling to regain his composure.  _You or me, Cousland. I have to turn this against you._  He raises his voice, in a tone of disbelief: "So, one of Cailan's murderers would dare to speak of betrayal?"

Their eyes clench in each other's as the fight of words starts, with equal determination.  _There must be a way to beat you_. Loghain tries to bring up the image of the sobbing, next to broken boy in the fetters; to uncover the trail of weakness which must be there, to rip open that seemingly smooth shell of confidence… to no avail.

All he sees is the reflection of his own eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

"'Goaded' him? How very peculiar that the 'goaded' Cailan considered waiting for reinforcements while  _you_  insisted they were unnecessary! But I surely cannot contradict your expertize when it comes to manipulating others. You have proven your skill when you sent your tool, Rendon Howe, to kidnap and torture the citizens of Ferelden!"

Hidden in the alcove of the side entrance, Anora smiles as she listens to the escalating debate.  _Truly, father, it was a big mistake to make this man your enemy! Had we had him on our side, it would never have come to this._

_If only you ever listened to me, it would never have come to this._

For a moment, there is astonished silence as Bann Sighard confirms the accusation, and then she hears her father's voice, hoarse with emotion: "Howe was responsible for himself!"

_Now, you are lucky that the man is dead, he would have dragged you along if you had tried to put the blame on him like this!_

"Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his home!"

"What do  _you_  know of justice?" Unlike her father, Ned Cousland keeps his voice calm, yet cutting deep. "You who awarded a murderer with the lands and titles of his victims. You who have abandoned the battlefield and left your king die at the hands of the worst enemy of mankind and left the land exposed to the Blight!"

_Yet another good point. The southern lords certainly do not need to be reminded of the consequence of your action._

"What would you have me do? Cailan's was not the only life in my hands. Should I have sacrificed the entire army for his mistake?"  _Even if it_ was _a military decision, no-one is going to believe it, after what they have heard. Will you ever tell_ me _if it was truly the way the battle went, or you simply got tired making up for Cailan's foolishness_?"Do not imagine you can shame me with Cailan's death. He was Maric's son. My king. No one regrets his loss more than I do!"

 _The shaming, sadly, will have to be my part_ , Anora sighs, growing impatient as she waits for her chance to step in.

"And this is why you stole his throne from his widow at the first opportunity?"

As expected, her father jumps at the bait. "By every means let us speak about my daughter!"

A few more sentences, to excite the nobles, and she steps out. "I believe I can speak for myself!"

She lets the awed murmur die; watching her father's expression change from joy to suspicion does not shatter her determination. Carefully tuning her voice, she adresses the nobles: "Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me. My father is no longer the man you know. This man is not the hero of River Dane. This man turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn."  _Really, Cailan, more credit than you deserve._  "This man seized Cailan's throne before his body was cold and locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery." She issues a heart-breaking sigh. "I would have already been killed, if not for Ned Cousland's timely rescue!"

The pained look in her father's face ...  _This was necessary, father. Your stubborness left no other way. I'm sorry._

 _The very embodiment of s_ _tubborness. Can't you see that this is leading nowhere?_  The voting went the way she had expected, yet she never imagined that Loghain would not abide by the outcome of the Landsmeet.

_A duel._

_Such… an unpredictable way._

_Truly frustrating._

"Have you a champion, or will you fight yourself?"

"I will fight myself."

Alistair sharply turns his head as if to protest and Anora frowns inwardly: an unnecessary risk… though, in the long-term, certainly advantageous for Cousland's reputation.

_If he wins, that is._

As she watches the combat, the prospects of Ned Cousland's victory are not particularly convincing: youth and agility may not suffice against a strong, experienced warrior who has never allowed himself to lose his skill with age. Once again, Loghain's shield bash sends Cousland to the ground – yet once again, he fails to secure a final blow.

Anora gasps as Loghain barely deflects a slash that would have cut off his head, and clutches at the fabric of her robe as Ned Cousland almost gets cut in halves.  _Maker, which one should I be supporting? The one I love, or the one I need?_

Both men are already bleeding, and both are panting heavily. For a while, they disengage, circling each other, waiting for the opponent's move, and Ned Cousland seems to be the one more exhausted.

"Your pride will be your undoing once again, young Cousland," Loghain grunts. "Even if you survive this, you will be charged with treason!"

Anora does not hear Ned's answer, she only grasps the word "letters" and sees her father freeze for a moment.

That moment costs him everything.

Loghain staggers under a shield blow, and sways as the blade cuts deep under his pauldron. He loses balance as his defence is broken through again, and falls hard to his knee and side. Before he can rise again, he has a point of the sword at his throat.

Silence but for the two men, breathing hard. No-one moves.

"I yield."

Anora realizes that she has been holding her breath, and holds it again as Ned Cousland says: "You will die for your crimes."

"Wait. There is another option."

Anora is impressed: she had not thought of employing the Warden for this. His suggestion makes her rather uneasy: this is not what she had expected as a way out for her father.  _Too risky… though I should probably be grateful for this; it's not only a way out for his life but also a way to redeem his reputation. You did think this through, well, Ned Cousland!_  She looks at her father who has taken the opportunity to rise to his feet:  _you must endure this, you must survive!_

She is unsure if Alistair's exaggerated reaction is a part of a role: she didn't think him capable of such performance, but by this time she has full trust in Cousland's abilities to handle the situation.

Then, it goes terribly wrong.

"You can't do this!" she exclaims as she overcomes the initial shock over his refusal. "My father may have been wrong but he is still a hero to the people!"  _And we have a deal, we have a_ deal _! You can't do this to me!_

"Anora. Hush. It's over."

Much later, she realizes that the way he said it probably meant 'I forgive you', but at the moment she is too distracted to see past the words. "Stop treating me like a child! This is serious!"

The way he looks at her as he says that ridiculous thing about daughters never growing up…  _I love you, I forgive you, my little girl_.

"Father…" her voice breaks. She makes a move to intervene, to stop –

The blade flashes in a broad swing, and she feels something warm trickle down her face. Her knees give way as she stumbles to him – tohis _body_  –

As she raises her head, the first time she meets Ned Cousland's eyes, cold and impassionate.

 _Never_  before has she hated aynone like that.

There is only one thing she can do now: to struggle on her own, since she can hardly hope that he will keep the rest of the bargain.

Yet she can only stand and listen as Cousland passes the crown to that impossible bastard of Maric's.  _You have doomed us all now. You traitor, you…_

And he  _dares_  to bid her to be reasonable, to give up her throne, to swear fealty – "Reason had apparently nothing to do with your choice!" she hisses, trepidating with fury.

Something flashes in his eyes then as he responds, too quietly for anyone else to hear: "On the very contrary, I had  _plenty_  of reasons for revenge."

 _I underestimated him_ _, and overestimated his ability to see past his personal goals_. To her surprise, it is Alistair who shows most reason here. She tilts her head in disbelief. "You would give me a chance for the throne? After all this?"

"I said, 'if I fall', Anora. If I fall, the throne falls to you. I won't kill you while there's still a chance that may happen. Someone has to take this Blight seriously."

"How uncharacteristically wise of you."  _And how incredibly naïve. If you disposed of me now, when the country is under the imminent threat, no-one would protest too much. They won_ _'t let you carry this out afterwards. If you live at all._

 _I will have my chance yet. And then, you w_ _ill pay for this, Ned Cousland. Later. When you have forgotten, and started to feel safe. Then, and only then, I will find what you hold dear, and I will destroy it all. I swear_.

She turns away and marches ahead of the escort.

Her face itches under her father's drying blood but she washes it only hours later.


	24. Chapter 24

Yet another toast to 'our new king', to which Alistair responds with a sip, and then he takes his chance to apologize from the banquet that Eamon threw as a small celebration of their victory.  _Ugh. I hope this is not going to happen again any time soon. Fortunately, Eamon showed his common sense and didn't let this get out of hand, there's a lot to do for the days to come._

The sounds of merrymaking don't make it to the first floor and Alistair welcomes the quietness, he still feels that events rush ahead of him and drag him behind.  _And I am most happy that no-one insists on moving to the royal palace right away, I certainly don't feel like sleeping in Cailan's bed._ He would much prefer a moment for himself but this will not happen until he gets rid of that pressing thought. He makes a pause before knocking on the door. "Ned? It's me. May I for a moment?"

There is silence, even though Alistair knows that Ned is almost certainly there, having retired from the banquet early, with tiredness and injuries from the duel as an excuse. _I_ _'m not buying this, man, not from you_. And knowing for sure that Morrigan is currently alone in the library, he insists: "I know that you are in there, and I have plenty of time on hand. If you think you can put up with knocking up till midnight, you're welcome."

Again the silence, but then he hears Ned say: "Come in, it's open," so he does and closes the door behind him.

And he pauses, at a loss: Ned is sitting in the alcove by the window, staring at the darkening sky, holding a silver cup in his hand. The bottle next to him is empty.

Alistair has never seen him drinking excessively, or getting purposely drunk.

"What do you want?" There is only a slight tinge of slurredness in Ned's voice, yet as an introduction it is far from inviting.

Never in his life has Alistair kept his mouth shut, and he's not going to break the habit. He takes a deep breath. "I want to… I have to ask you something. About the Landsmeet… about Anora." Ned stubbornly stares out of the window, not givig any clue, so Alistair has to continue, painfully aware of the atmosphere that is cold at best.

Were it not his friend, his comrade – his  _brother_  – he'd almost use the word 'hostile'.

"You never told me about your conversation with Anora prior the Landsmeet. Actually, you were quite elusive when I asked, if I recall. Given that odd exchange between the two of you when you proclaimed me… I wonder."

Ned takes a long drink from his cup. "You do not want to know," he says blankly.

 _The hard way, then_. Alistair slowly says: "I don't think that wanting is an option any longer. You made me king, and I accepted. In my book, kings do not have the luxury of not wanting to know. I guess it's time… to accept other things, too. Tell me what it was about. I need to know."

Ned finally turns his stare from the window and his look builds a hard lump in Alistair's stomach. It's too late to back out now, though. "You promised her something you didn't keep," he says softly.

"I promised her something I never  _intended_  to keep," Ned corrects him and takes another drink.

Alistair is beginning to understand, or so he thinks. He brings a chair and places it next to Ned's. "You promised to support her claim in exchange for her support in our cause, and then you gave the crown to me."

"I promised to support her in exchange for her promise to marry me."

"You what?"

Never minding the interruption, Ned continues in the same impassionate tone that sends chills down Alistair's spine. "I convinced her that I was as power-greedy as herself. That I would betray a friend just to elevate my own status. I did everything I could to make sure that she would feel safe and keep her end of the deal."

Alistair feels as if a void opened under his feet. "You could have gone through with it if you wanted the crown. You would make a better king than me. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"You were not listening; I said I never intended that." Ned's breath hisses between his teeth. "Never, ever, would I unite myself with an offspring of Loghain's. I'd rather be _dead_  than that."

Alistair quietly ponders for a moment. "Very well," he says, trying his best to sound matter-of-fact. "So, you lied to the bitch who most likely played an active part in that little trap they set for you, to make sure that we win the Landsmeet. Given what was at stake – I condone what you did. If we didn't manage to bring Loghain to the justice he deserved, it would not only cost us our heads but Ferelden would most likely fall to the Blight, as well."

"That's why it probably  _had_  to be done. The reason why I  _wanted_  to do it –"Ned's knuckles turn white as he is holding the cup. "I wanted to do it," he continues almost in whisper, "because I wanted Loghain not only dead but stripped of everything he ever achieved: his power, his reputation… his daughter. I wanted to see that look on his face when she slandered him in public." His voice turns hoarse. "It was not justice I was after, it was revenge."

"On my part, I cannot see what's wrong with that." Alistair's own voice is also hoarse, his head is spinning. "Two birds with one stone. Why are you tormenting yourself over it so?"

"Do you not see? Loghain excused everything he did that it was for the sake of Ferelden. I can excuse everything I've done by the Blight, or justice, or whatever.  _I am the same as him_."

 _Maker's breath_. "Ah. Oh. Well, if you exterminated half an army while committing regicide, ignited civil war and had people enslaved and tortured, you really managed to keep that from me. Easy to fool, am I. Next time you tell me that due to your new sense of brotherhood with that bastard, you are sorry to have dismissed Riordan's suggestion."

Ned chuckles humourlessly. "I am only sorry I couldn't have him on his knees before I cut off his head."

"That's fine with me. You know, for a moment, I thought that you were… considering it. I'd never forgive you if you did."

"I'd never forgive myself if I did."

Alistair's relief is pre-timely, though, as Ned continues: "But I should have done it, not just because it was yet another thing I promised to Anora. I should have, were I worthy that armour I put on for display. I dishonoured it. I played the Warden Commander but I did not act like one. I… failed my duty. I pursued my personal goal, and used the Wardens as a cover-up. I…" Ned's voice begins to tremble. He stares with unseeing eyes, his pupils dilated, lost in the haze of self-accusation.

"Ned… "Alistair's mouth feels so dry that his voice creaks. He feels as if drawn into the depth of Ned's own despair. Impulsively, he grabs his friend by the shoulders and gives him a violent shake, spilling the rest of the wine from the cup. "He deserved it. He bloody well deserved it. No matter what your personal reasons were, he did deserve to die. For Duncan, for Cailan, for your family and yourself – " A sound between a chuckle and a sob brings him to a halt. "What?"

Ned's reply is barely audible. "When… he was trying to make me confess, I hurled in his face an accusation of the way little Oren and his mother died. He blurted out that he had not ordered that. I do not know if he meant that particular thing, or that he did not order murdering my family at all. I will never know, I killed the bastards both."

 _Andraste, how do I get him out_ _of this_? Alistair draws his face close to Ned's. "Listen. It. Does. Not. Matter. You did the right thing, and necessary. If you had your doubts, you should have let me deliver the blow."

"That would make no difference. Besides, I wanted to keep your hands clean of this."

Alistair withdraws.  _Now I'm sorry I have drunk so little. A cup would do now – or rather a barrel._  Finally he says: "That was unnecessary. As a king, I will have to do my dirty job myself, anyway."

"As a king you will have people to do it for you."

"Bloody never more!" Alistair grips Ned's shoulder again. "Or at least not you, of all the people!"

They both fall silent, Ned still staring somewhere past the chamber's walls, Alistair frantically looking for something to say. "You see," he ventures at last, "I still do not get why you're so convinced that letting Loghain live would have been a bright idea. Yeah, we did well even  _despite_  Loghain – now, can you imagine how incredibly easy things will be  _without_  him? No, don't tell me – you like challenges. Sweeping the Archdemon with one blow and the whole horde with another is not heroic enough. You wanted Loghain to mess things up his usual way, so that we have more fun."

Ned looks at him with disbelief. "Alistair," he says almost lovingly after a while, "have I ever told you that you are an idiot?"

Alistair cocks his head. "Well, yes – on countless occasions. Just don't know what it makes of you who have put me on the throne, an idiot's idiot?"

Ned shakes his head and laughs a little. "Rather a king's fool, provided that we both live to see the day." He looks at the empty cup. "You have spilt my wine," he complains.

 _Oh, finally_. "Maybe My Majesty should fetch another bottle, as an atonement?"

"Definitely. In case you do not realize, this is possibly our only chance to get drunk magnificently."

 _And to get sick magnificently,_  Alistair thinks but does not protest.  _Eamon and_   _Wynne will have our heads for this, and Leliana will have my, uhm… But for a friend's sake, one must sometimes make sacrifices._


	25. Chapter 25

Two days. Two days since her world shattered, and there is no-one else to blame but herself.

_Necessary or not, I betrayed him._

Two days. Filled with guilt and remorse, doubt and self-hatred.

Two days which she spent in the seclusion of her quarters. No-one came to issue commands, or put her under arrest. Those who came for commands from her she turned away: she is in no position to command others.

_'This is vital, Cauthrien. Don't fail me.'_

The last words he ever spoke to her.

_And I failed him in the worst possible way._

Two days was long enough, she finally decides. Carefully, she dons her armour. She checks the blade of her sword –  _his_  gift to her – before she returns it in its scabbard.

_There is no way I can carry on like this. There is but one way out._

She can feel eyes on her, and hear the whispers as she passes by but she does not care; she knows who her people are and where she will learn what she needs to know.

Sometimes, things turn out in a very expectable way.

_He took over the study._

There are no guards at the door; their absence sharply reminding Cauthrien of her guilt, though it also makes her task easier.

Cousland is sitting behind the table – Loghain's table! – and raises his head as she enters and bars the door behind her. Nonetheless, he does not bother to stand up even though he must see the bare sword in her hand.

He still makes no move as the point of her sword stops mere inches from his chest. "Get up and take out your sword, or I kill you as you are," she orders.

"And why should you do so?" he asks calmly.

Her sight is almost blinded with rage. "Why? You bloody liar! You promised that you would let him live!"

He slightly tilts his head. "If you care to recall our exchange, I never worded such a promise."

"But you mislead me to believe so!"

"Would you rather have been killed then?"

Cauthrien has to gulp, aware that her emotions are getting the better of her. Why  _did I ever let you live?_  "My own life does not matter! But him – how could you do that! For all his faults, he was still a great man! You already defeated him, there was no need to cut off his head! Why did you do that? Did you really hate him so much?"

He speaks very softly. "You are not the one I am answerable to."

"No? You bloody bastard, you owe me at least that!"

" _Owe_  you?" His voice barely changes but Cauthrien sudenly feels chill running down her spine. "I do owe you – a couple of broken bones and a nice little session in the torture chamber, and that debt  _certainly_  remains unpaid."

Cauthrien finds herself perspiring and it takes a great effort not to stray from his eyes.  _I shouldn't have let him talk_ , she thinks. Her mistake is evident but it is too late now, the words have prevailed.

Unexpectedly, Cousland leans back and folds his arms. "Fortunately, I do not intend to wring out my dues. I may even answer your question, if you answer mine."

"What question?" Her voice is unnaturally rasp.

"Did Loghain unleash Howe on my family, or did he only cover it up afterwards?"

 _Oh, Maker_. "I… do not know."

His eyes are like empty holes… to a bottomless abyss. "You certainly have an opinion. As Loghain´s second, you… must have overheard things."

 _What do I tell him?_  That abyss might as well open under her feet. "There – there were all possible kinds of rumours going around. Most… most of them I knew were unbased. Some of them were true – and yet others were such as I knew nothing about." She takes a deep breath. "Those of your family… were the ones I didn't know about, and didn't care."

Slowly, he nods. "Thank you, Ser Cauthrien, for answering my question – and I believe I have also answered yours." He stands up right against the point of her sword. "Now… I have seen too many blades to be impressed by one more, so kindly put it away unless you wish to try your luck with me right now."

Oh, she does, her hand aches to plunge the sword in his body, to see life vanish from those eyes which already seem lifeless like cold stone. "Not only did you kill him, you also made his daughter turn against him…" She feels her hand trembling." You  _used_  her against him and then threw her away!"

"I did. She betrayed  _me_ , I betrayed  _her_  – now  _that_  is a debt I never leave unpaid."

"How did she possibly betray you?"

He tilts his head again. "Am I truly supposed to believe that her father would have put her life in danger? Tell me, Ser Cauthrien –" his voice suddenly snaps – "how did you learn that I killed Howe, or of my presence at the estates at all?"

"Loghain told me –" she blurts and then stops as her throat tightens.

"Loghain told you," Ned Cousland repeats softly. "She had a disguise ready in case we should encounter Howe's or Loghain's men – but how could Howe´s men poise a problem if I have already dealt with their master, and why care about your folk at all if she did not at least suspect your arrival? Yet, she did not warn me, and did nothing, nothing at all to help me after I had just risked my life to help  _her_."

"She wouldn't have been able to prevent anything! But you, first you robbed her of her father, then of her throne –"

" _Cailan's_ throne, if you please, and I passed it to Cailan's  _brother_ , who was so merciful that he did not have her executed on the spot and even made her his successor for the time being! Would she have shown him such mercy, were their places exchanged? You must forgive me if I value my own life, or his, for that matter, too much to leave it at the whim of  _Loghain's_  daughter."

Cauthrien is seriously afraid that she might swoon, or retch, or start screaming. Instead, she manages a hoarse whisper. "You have an excuse for everything, don't you?"

He slightly frowns. "I'm telling you the  _reasons_ , since I do owe you at least that." He steadies the tip of her sword with his bare hand. " _Do_  you intend to use it or not?"

Her shoulders sink as she realizes that she does not; her anger spent, she is bereft of the will and strength to carry out her plan. Embarrassed, she returns the useless sword to its sheath. "So sure you were I would not use it against you," she mutters bitterly. There is nothing, nothing left for her, not even her self-esteem; he has taken it all. "You would not even draw yours."

His eyes never leave hers. "I  _hoped_  it would not come to this." With a languid move, he throws a small object – where was he keeping it? in his sleeve? under the table? – at the wall with the tapestry of the Gwaren coat of arms. The object shatters, its content splashes on the tapestry, even the tiniest droplet issuing a spiral of smoke as it burns its way through the fabric.

Cousland walks around the table, to the door, where he stops. "Just so that you knew… As a boy, I was no different from others: we played at the battle of River Dane and we took turns to be Maric and Rowan and Loghain. Back then, I used to think that being Loghain was the best deal. I even  _wished_  to be like him. Strangely, now that I  _have_ become somewhat like him, it doesn't make me happy in the least." A pause. "As for you, Ser Cauthrien, you have time till tomorrow to determine what  _you_  wish. The new King would certainly appreciate someone who can be loyal to the extremes, and yet not be completely blinded by the loyalty. We are to depart to the south soon, and I'd like to leave the charge of the defences of Denerim with someone reliable."

And with that he strides away, leaving Cauthrien stare at the smoldering remains of the Gwaren coat of arms.

_Ruins. Everything turned to ruins._

She is unsure whether she wishes to rebuild at all, or rather have the abyss swallow her.

Yet, a few weeks later, she is there, in the position Cousland offered her, watching the man and the bastard king leave, side by side, leading the army to Redcliffe. The news from the south are disheartening; the men march in grim silence.  _When, and if, Cousland returns_... but Cauthrien will address this issue only when it arises, to sort what it is that she actually feels towards the man, and what she will do about it.

For the time being, she is only doing her duty, carrying out that which is necessary, for Ferelden – like they all do, and as Loghain would have wanted.


End file.
